


The fox, the hound, and the looking glass unbound

by Ellurian



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction, Thor(Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Criminal!Tom, Explicit Sexual Content, Hints of humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Officer!Chris, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but nothing graphic, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellurian/pseuds/Ellurian
Summary: While Chris is working for the law, Tom is working against it. They lead two separate lives, each of them living on one of the opposite banks of the river of reality.When they meet, an unpredictable rabbit hole opens beneath their feet, both dark and beautiful all at once.For is it the hound who chases the fox, or is it the other way around?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gisela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gisela/gifts), [halo1759](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo1759/gifts).



> "Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”  
> ― Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There

A man opens his eyes, and sees the sun’s first morning rays spilling through the window.

 

He leaves his bed, body warm and senses groggy, and attends his morning ablutions.

 

He goes to work, and does what he must. At the evening he goes back to his home, consumes his dinner, and returns to his bed, bidding the long set sun goodbye.

 

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

  
  
  


Routine takes him, and he belongs to her.

 

Every day is as its previous. 

  
  
  


\---------

  
  
  


And yet, some days are not like the others.

  
  
  


\---------

  
  
  


“You ready H?”

 

The voice booms through the wired bud, a sudden electrical pitch shooting into his ear.

 

“Yeah,” Chris winces, trying to re-adjust the small microphone, “I’m all set.”

 

Leaning his back on the wall, he draws his gun out of its holster.

 

He detaches and reattaches the gun’s magazine, double checking the safety with his forehead creased in disquiet.

 

He wants this over as soon as possible.

 

“Philly? You on?”

 

Crouching on the ground to Chris’s left, Phil responds with a quick, sharp whistle.

“All slick and hot,” he perks into the microphone, “set us free Mike.”

 

“Alright,” Mike says carefully, “Stay put boys, on my cue.”

 

“On cue,” Both answer.

 

Chris watches the main entrance to the Montgomery bank, silently measuring the scene in front of him.

 

He and Phil are to be started just after the main squad of cops will approach the main lobby.

They will sneak through the bank’s side entrance, aiming for the suspects on the rear - the ones so called the big brainers.

 

For moments, the surrounded building appears quiet, but then, a small squad of armed cops rushes to the entrance, setting the operation into action. 

 

“Infantry on the move,” Mike says.

 

The troops align around the main door, aiming their guns at it as one of them inspects the area before attempting to break through.

 

Chris licks his lips as he watches, jaws setting tighter as the seconds roll. 

 

Hostages. The dirty bastards locked the hostages inside the main lobby.

 

“How come we only have four people at the front?” he asks, already sensing how all of this can easily go horribly wrong. Yet again, they didn’t assemble the correct amount of manpower.

 

“We need more muscle in here.”

 

“This is a small bank,” Mike answers shortly, “this is what we’ve got.”

 

A small bank?

 

“They have hostages in there, Mike, and more people inside-”

 

“Save it Hemsworth. We’re in money time right now. Just do your dance, alright?” 

 

“Take it easy Chris. We’re organized. We’ll take them down before they know it,” Phil tells him, and Chris almost snorts back at the man.

 

“Ok Boys, that’s enough,” Mike cuts in, “we’re on. Go!”

 

“Finally. Was growing a beard here,” Phil mutters next to him, and rises to a swift trot. Chris leaps right after him.

 

They jog past the unfolding scene, covertly crossing the main road surrounding the building, until they reach the bank’s back door, looking the same as Mike had described to them earlier on.

 

“This is it,” Phil pants, catching his breath.

 

“Yeah,” Chris murmurs, eyes evaluating the door’s metallic lock. 

 

He steps backwards then, followed by Phil, and feels for his weapon’s silencer through a hip pocket. 

 

“Blow it to the ground man,” Phil urges, his voice annoyingly smudging through the microphone. 

 

Chris narrows his eyes at the lock, and points his gun at it.

 

He draws a thin breath, aims, and pulls the trigger, his silenced shot slushing through the air. 

 

The lock gives out right away, falling with a steely clank to the ground.

 

“Alright, alright,” Phil chirps, plunged with adrenaline, “let’s hunt down a few aces.”

 

“Back me up Chris, I’m going in,” he announces, and with three quick strides rushes right through the door.

 

“Be careful, don’t push it,” Chris advises him, situating himself a few feet from the entrance, hands holding his gun intact. He stands still, breath steady through the buzz in his chest. 

 

“Clear,” Phil announces after a moment, his voice now quieter through the line as he steps deeper into the building.

 

“They’re in there, Philly,” Mike tells him, “What about you H? Seeing anything?”

 

Chris looks around him, autumn cool breeze ruffling the tree leaves and grass, turning the area eerily quiet. Almost pleasant. 

 

“Clear.” 

 

“Keep looking,” Mike insists, “Don’t lower your guard, we’re not alone.”

 

“Roger,” Chris confirms. 

 

“Philly, keep talking. Tell us what you see.”

 

A moment passes, then another. 

 

The line is vacant.

 

“Speak up Phil.” 

 

But no response comes through.

 

“What do you see Phil, confirm command, right now,” Mike orders, a hint of urgency touching his voice.

 

Chris furrows his eyebrows, frowning at the busted door.

 

Visible is only a long, badly lighted hall, leading to an end too dark to be identified. 

 

He waits, but Phil’s response won’t come.

 

Damn it. Damn him.

 

“Chris,-”

 

“I’m going in Mike,” Chris announces shortly, “Get someone here to watch our backs.”

 

“Alright, goddamnit, alright,” Mike is irritated, and worried, “You keep talking Chris, we’re blind in there.”

 

“I’m on it,” Chris murmurs, fingers gripping his gun, holding it ready as he steps through the door.

 

He enters a small lobby room, its walls painted peculiar shades of white and beige, with disproportionally large, old paintings hanging on them - enormous and silent as a grave.

 

The lobby offers two walkways, each leading to a different hall.

 

Chris inspects at each of them, contemplating an imperative choice with a rush.

 

With no time to spare, forced to rely on his instinct, Chris heads to the left hall.

 

Raising his gun to face level, he moves forward as quietly as possible.

 

“What do you see.”

 

Chris sucks on a breath, startled by the sudden voice bursting through the stillness.

 

“Nothing yet Mike, hall is empty,” Chris says, voice just slightly above a whisper, slowly marching on.

 

Ahead of him, he soon spots a room at the left end of the hall, its door slightly ajar.

 

Both hands gripping his gun, Chris marches on, ready to defend himself.

 

He halts with his back to the nearest wall, and listens - his breaths kept as low as possible.

 

“What’s up H, talk to me-”

 

“Shhhh,” Chris hisses at him. The man knows no bloody calm.

 

From behind the door, a faint sound of ragged breathing reaches Chris’s ears.

 

_ That’s it, that’s it _ , he knows at once.

 

He licks his lips, inhaling deeply as he steadies his breath, readying himself.

 

Leaning sideways to gain a momentum, Chris whirls back, landing his body weight on the door, wreaking it open. 

 

The door hits the wall with a smash, and Chris charges into the room, gun raised ahead.

 

He is about shout, to announce his arrival, but the sight revealed to him steals the exclamation of  _ Police! _ from his lips.

 

A few feet ahead, standing on his two legs, hands cuffed behind his back - is Phil.

 

Standing behind Phil, gripping Phil’s shoulder, is a man, his cold, hard stare assessing Chris’s figure. He is holding Phil’s weapon, pointing it directly at Phil’s brow.

 

_ You sodding idiot,  _ Chris’s mind races, _ you stupid, juvenile excuse for a cop,- _

 

Chris swallows thickly, his gun aimed right at the man’s face. He stares right back at the man, trying to evaluate his chances in combat.

 

“Hemsworth!,” Mike orders into the microphone, startling Chris, causing the weapon to quiver in his hands,  “Tell me what you see!”

 

“Bloody hell, Mike, you’re gonna kill both of us,” Chris growls, and in the heat of the moment tears the microphone from his ear and tosses it to the floor. He immediately repositions his weapon then, blinking his temporary distraction away.

 

The assaulter raises a surprised eyebrow at Chris, silently watching the ongoing spectacle.

 

He glances at the dispensed, torn device, then returns to look at Chris, a stupid smirk touching his lips.

 

“Hello.”

 

_ A Brit,  _ Chris notes the man’s accent, then his short, dark curly hair, estimating a thin frame behind Phil’s body to match the man’s facial features.

 

“Let him go.” 

 

The man’s gaze does not waver. 

 

He looks at Chris, wordlessly weighing his options for long, uncertain moments.

 

“My name is Tom. And you are?”

 

Chris blinks at him, unprepared for the provided information nor the question it was followed by.

 

“Well?” Both of the man’s eyebrows rise this time, waiting for Chris’s answer.

 

“I’m Tom,” he tries again, “and we both know Phil already. Now is your turn.”

 

Chris stares at him with growing spite. What a useless, pretentious banter.

 

The man, Tom, presses the tip of his weapon over Phil’s skin.

 

“Your name, blue.”

 

Chris’s mind races for the most effective strategy he could use. The back of his neck is prickling with energy. All he knows is that he should keep the quarrel with this man to the bare minimum.

 

“Chris,” he provides, utterly reluctant.

 

Tom watches him, his gun loosening from Phil’s brow.

 

“Chris,” he says, as if tasting the word on his tongue, “a classic.”

 

Chris eyes Phil’s face, kneading his gun’s barrel.

 

“Release him.” 

 

Tom nods lightly, his lips showing a ghost of a smile.

 

“I might,” he says, “if you put your gun down on the floor.” 

 

Chris looks at him icily, his gun constantly pointing at Tom’s head.

 

“Or I can shoot you,” his temper speaks against his better judgment. A clean shot, though, even when taken from such a minimal distance, is not that simple, what with Tom’s figure almost entirely positioned behind Phil.

 

“You can do that,” Tom replies, “and with me dead or not, we’ll all know immediately how my boys at the front might handle an unexpected gunshot coming from the back, how they’ll treat their hostages, huh.”

 

Chris inhales deeply, his throat working as he swallows. The bloody hostages. 

 

“Come on Chris, drop your gun and I won’t harm him,” Tom urges him, voice calm yet sharp.

 

Chris’s thoughts reel through, begging for the right course of action.

 

He sweeps his eyes over Phil’s terrorized ones, sees his blanched face and his unsteady stance, and resignation quickly tumbles down his compulsion to fight. Phil seems entirely unfit for any type of action.

 

He looks at Tom, longing to outdo him, yet slowly loosens his hold over his gun. He bends down, and places the weapon on the floor.

 

Painfully defenseless, Chris rises back to his feet, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. 

 

“A wise decision,” Tom tells him, but Chris is hardly listening to him as he looks at Phil, realizing just how quickly the situation might deteriorate from here now that they are at a fatal disadvantage.

 

_ No bloodbath,  _ his mind tells him,  _ no bloodbath.. _

 

“Please,” he tries, voice as peacifying as he can muster, “All I want is for everyone to get back home safely.”

 

Tom stares at him, dangerously quiet, a hint of menace in his eyes.

 

“Of course you do.”

 

Tom’s cool reply sets Chris’s thoughts on a surge again, racing for the right words to say, when suddenly a low groan emerges from Phil’s mouth, starting Chris. 

 

Tom’s fingers dig deep into Phil’s shoulder then, and without further warning, he shoves him forward.

 

“Get out of this room boyo, and keep it quiet. Tell your boss I have Chris here with me, and so to keep his men away from the door. There will be no negotiations what so ever. Now go.”

 

“Chris-” Phil whimpers, his eyes wide, and within, Chris feels his composure thinning at his partner’s weak cry. There’s a chance for at least one of them to slip out of this place unharmed, and instead of doing exactly that, the man is practically wailing at him.

 

“Get the hell out of here Phil.” 

 

“But Chris-”

 

“Leave, now,-”

 

“Go!” Tom barks, shoving Phil forward with the barrel of his gun, making Phil groan, “get out of my sight or I’ll shoot you both.”

 

Phil looks at him pleadingly again, but Chris dismisses him at once.

 

“Tell everyone I’m ok, I’ll meet you outside.”

 

His face nearly white, Phil nods at him, and with one last, agonizing glace at Chris, he trots outside of the room, his footsteps fading into muffled taps disappearing through the hallway.

 

Once Phill is gone, Tom aims his weapon at Chris.

 

“Funny chap Phill,” Tom says, “not much of a cop though.”

 

Chris holds his tongue. Tom’s bickering means nothing to him. The fact that Tom is right -  is what makes Chris’s skin prickle.

 

“He’s my partner,” Chris answers him plainly.

 

“Some partner. Talking about unbalanced relationships.”

 

Chris grants him a wordless stare, which Tom meets equally.

 

“Fine,” Tom mutters indigantly. 

 

“The brown bag at the corner,” he indicates with his chin, “hand it over to me.”

 

Wearing his most neutral expression, Chris reluctantly fetches the handbag and hands it over to Tom. The small room has become deafeningly quiet, as if they are only people present in the building.

 

Cautiously, his movements bordering on lazy, Tom hefts the bag over his shoulder.

 

“Except me, you mean.”

 

It is as if Chris missed the first part of the sentence.

 

“What?” 

 

“You want everyone to get back home safely - except me. The filthy criminal who assaulted your inane little friend.”

 

Chris’s eyebrows scrunch together.

 

For a quick, bizarre moment, Chris wonders whether Tom has a family somewhere, or whether he has any friends at all.

 

“No, no, that’s not true.”

 

“I meant all of us. You, me, the hostages, my mates and your boys - everyone. No need for blood to spill for money,” he finishes in a small voice.

 

Tom tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as if questioning Chris’s honesty.

 

“Such chivalry,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, “How sweetly innocent.”

 

Not knowing what to say, Chris averts his eyes away, slightly unsettled.

 

He can still feel Tom’s eyes on him when he pulls a small pager from his trousers pocket, and presses it to his ear.

 

“Bron.”

 

An electrical click is heard.

 

“Tommy-boy, talk to me.”

 

“I ain't a boy, nor a Tommy,” Tom replies without pause. “You and Lomy take a hike on my cue, coming soon.”

 

“What cue?”

 

“You’ll know it. Soon. Tom out,” he says and disconnects the conversation, folding the device back into his trousers.

 

“So. No cruel jabs, no threatening, no beating. Are you always this nice to cons?”

 

Once again, Tom’s demeanor is entirely unclear. Is he trying to bait him into a feud?

 

Tom watches him, as if curious for his reply, and Chris swallows thickly.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” he says, sensing foolish and hating it, hating being utterly vulnerable.  _ Let me go, let’s finish this,  _ he wants to throw at Tom. 

 

Tom continues to watch him for a moment, but then, he lowers his eyes, looking inexplicably sheepish. 

 

“Right, ok then,” he mutters then, “turn around, give me your back.” 

 

His face remaining blank, Chris obeys.

 

But Tom does nothing at first, standing motionless behind Chris’s back, triggering anxiety down Chris’s spine.

 

“You don’t seem stupid either. I can’t see why you’re working with those thick-headed cronies.”

 

Chris sets his jaws tight. Too much talking, is what it is.

 

“Go now,” Tom says finally.

 

They walk together, with Chris blind to what Tom is doing, only stopping a few steps from the door at Tom’s clipped command.

 

“Stop,” he says, and Chris does. 

 

Once again, Tom pauses behind him. He lets long moments pass in terse silence, until he lets out a sigh.

 

“Don’t get smart on me,” he says, “Stay close to me, and make no sudden movements. You’re not the only one here wishing to have a warm shower tonight.”

 

“Ok.” He wants to get out of this place.

 

“Fine. Fine. Whatever,” Tom bristles, and then, instead of Chris’s shoulder, like Tom did with Phil, he grabs the back of Chris’s neck.

 

“Must you be a bloody cop,” he mutters under his breath, and with a tug forward, they exit the door.  

 

Chris winces as they walk out of the building, blinded by the sunrays, sensing as if the last time he’d seen sunlight was days ago.

 

He pinpoints Mike right away, standing rigidly next to a police vehicle, weapon almost drawn, his face taut with tension.

 

More police vehicles gather around the small scene surrounding the building’s back exit, men in uniform stepping out of them to closely watch their movements.

 

Tom tightens his hold, drawing Chris to him, sliding his arm fiercely around his neck. 

 

“Walk on,” Tom commands and Chris breathes as evenly as possible, working to maintain his calm under Tom’s tight grip.

 

“That blue over there,” Tom indicates his arm at Mike’s direction, “Is he the boss?”, and Chris nods affirmatively.

 

“Ah. And his name?”

 

“Michael.” 

 

“Michael,- Mikey!” Tom calls suddenly.

 

“My boys are waiting for me just nearby,” he calls out loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

“I’m about to take your firm, devoted soldier over here for a short ride with me,” he says, and Chris swears under his breath, a shiver running through his chest.

 

“Do not follow us, I’ll know if you will,” Tom says,- “And nobody will get hurt.”

 

From his position at a relatively safe distance, Mike’s face remains perfectly stoic.

 

“I have your face now, buddy,” Mike grits through clenched teeth.

 

“And I have yours, stranger,” Tom responds precariously, a dark smile behind his voice.

 

“Also,” Tom continues, “I have a mind that you better do as I say if you want Chris here to see tomorrow’s sunrise.”

 

Mike slaps the car’s hood, cursing and swearing into his fist.

 

Under a set of heavy stares, arm solidly wounded around Chris’s neck, Tom leads them both into a nearby alley Chris had never bothered visiting before.

 

A thick, rolling noise of a car engine rapidly escalates, until a gray RCV is revealed to them.

 

“That’s our ride,” Tom says, and one of the vehicle's back door slides open.

 

Inside, A man is sitting on the backseat, his hair dark and short, his face squared with strong lines. He quickly ogles Chris’s figure - his expression contorting with irritation and ridicule.

 

“Who’s the uniform?-” he drawls, but Tom cuts him off at once.

 

“Move away Zig, he’s sitting next to me,” Tom announces in a clipped tone.

 

The man- Zig, narrows his eyes at Chris, his gaze shining with growing disdain.

 

“Who the hell is this fu,-”

 

“Move your arse or I punch you between your eyes, you soddin’ idiot,” Tom spits at him, and Zig moves uncomfortably in his seat.

 

“Shit boss, what’s wrong with you,” he mutters, moving to the car’s front.

 

“Shut it. Questions later,” Tom grumbles.

 

“Get in,” he urges at Chris, and Chris climbs into the back seat, quiet as Tom moves to sit to his right. His jaws are set tightly together as he thinks of his family, of his home.

 

“Ace, take me where I want to go,” Tom asks, and Chris catches the driver’s face reflecting in the front mirror, nodding back at Tom.

 

“Aye boss.”

 

Tom shifts in his seat, reaches to one of his pockets, and pulls out a black piece of cloth.

 

“Tie this around your eyes.” 

 

Chris takes the black material, tying it around his head and over his eyes, breathing as evenly as possible. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning sideways to rest his brow over the window.

 

The engine is then started, and immediately the vehicle begins to move.

 

Their ride is quiet, with no words exchanged between the three men. Chris estimates their ride to last for an hour or so, during which he senses Tom’s presence next to him throughout every single moment. 

 

Tom touches his shoulder when finally the vehicle comes to a full halt.

 

“Come on,” he tugs at him to follow, and Chris does, stiffly sliding over the seat with his eyes still covered. Fingers close over his upper arm and draw him over, guiding him through the car’s door. 

 

Tom unties the black cloth from his head, and Chris shields his eyes, blinking harshly at the demanding daylight as he attempts to recognize their surroundings.

 

They are standing on the roadside of what seems to be an interurban highway, with an urban view of a nearby town, probably two miles to their left.

 

Chris does not recognize this place.

 

Tom reaches into his pocket, drawing out two bills of one hundred dollars, and places them in Chris’s hand.

 

“There’s a taxi station one and a half mile to our left, back in town,” he says.

 

Chris eyes the money for the shortest moment, wanting to hand it right back, but keeps it in his hand. He does not carry his wallet, nor his cellphone at the moment.

 

“Thanks,” he says, stuffing the money into his jeans.

 

Tom turns his head then, eyes pensively narrowed at the distance.

 

“May I go,” Chris dares, when more and more moments drift in silence. 

 

“In a moment,” Tom murmurs, then turns to Chris.

 

“What is your last name?” he asks.

 

Chris shudders at the question.

 

“My last name,” he repeats, trying to buy himself some time. He has to think.

Once again, he searches desperately for a safe answer, a path of escape.

 

Tom is looking into his eyes, curious and expectant.

 

Chris pries his lips open, and closes them, no words coming to him.

 

_ He will know who I am, he will find out where I live- _

 

“Chris,” Tom takes a step closer to him, and grabs Chris’s arm.

 

“Your last name. I would like to know what it is.”

 

Chris sucks in a breath, hot despair pulling at his thoughts.

 

“My kids,” he rasps, preparing himself to drop to his knees and beg for mercy.

 

“Please don’t hurt my kids. I beg you.”

 

A crease forms on Tom’s forehead, his grasp on Chris’s arm easing. 

 

“Never. I promise,” he replies slowly, then looks at Chris closely, eyes sharp, - “Now tell me.”

 

Chris swallows past a lump forming in his throat, his heart twisting. He prays to whoever may listen.

 

“Hemsworth,” he says in a near whisper.

 

Tom’s gaze lingers on him.

 

“Hemsworth. Chris- Hemsworth,” he repeats, curious, the smallest of smiles touching his lips. “Thank you,” he says lightly.

 

“You’re not from here, are you. Where were you born?” he asks, his eyes glinting with unexpected adventure.

 

“Boss, we gotta go, come on back into the car,” Zig pipes, peeking out his head from the window.

 

Tom’s expression freezes, then darkens immediately. He lowers his eyes to the ground, his lips thinning into a thin, angry line.

 

“A single moment,” Tom says in a low voice, “a single, pitiful moment of quiet was all I asked for,” he turns to face the car.

 

“But, boss - we can’t stay here, this stinking blue is going to attract the whole lot of them police to us.”

 

Tom’s chest rises and falls, looking at Zig with a threat.

 

“I told you to shut up Zig, didn’t I.”

 

Zig falls silent then, staring at Chris with growing disdain. 

 

“Who the fuck are you anyway,” he mutters.

 

When Chris refrains from answering, Zig spits on the floor.

 

“He’s all dumb boss, can’t you see? Can’t answer a simple question-“

 

But Zig is cut off then, when suddenly Tom loses his calm and kicks the car’s door with a low, metallic thud, making Chris suck in a breath. That must hurt.

 

“You no-good, dimwitted crook,” Tom snaps at Zig, his neck flushing heat.

 

“Roll up the damn window before I lose my last bit of patience and smack your head with my gun.”

 

Startled, Zig’s mouth hangs open - then snaps shut.

 

“Mind your own worthless business, for sanity’s sake,” Tom practically spits the words at the man.

 

“Ok boss, ok, don’t be angry at me,” Zig murmurs, and does exactly as he was told, disappearing back into the vehicle.

 

Silence stretches then, with only the noise of the occasional vehicle passing by, and Tom remains still, with only his shoulders rising and falling along with his deep breaths.

 

Eventually, Tom turns back to Chris. He runs his hand through his hair, his face still slightly red with effort.

 

“An utter failure,” he mutters, pinching his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry-” he begins hoarsely, “I’m sorry about him, the way he talks, about the way I talk.” 

 

Bewildered by the entire chain of events, Chris can only stare at him.

  
“I’m sorry your eyes were tied,” Tom continues, resigned, “that you had to cram into this ugly RVC, sorry that all of this had to be this way.”

 

Chris shakes his head, at a complete loss.

 

“It’s - ok.”

 

Tom clicks his tongue, lips pressed tight.

 

“No- no it’s not. It’s not ok.”

 

He shakes his head as his forehead creases solemnly.

 

“Hopeless. This is entirely hopeless, and I am an idiot,” he says, almost too quiet to be heard.

 

He looks over the horizon, and with a worn sigh turns to Chris.

 

“I better go,” he says, looking tired.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He runs a hand through his hair, massaging his neck, then gestures the direction of the city with his hand.

 

“Go Chris. Go back to your kids. Be safe. Go. Run back to your home.”

 

Chris blinks at him, registering his sudden permission to leave. He can go. Right now.

 

His thoughts are a swirling storm, his heart a loud beat in his chest.

 

_ Will you be ok,  _ he almost asks Tom, but flees from that thought. It has nothing to do with anything. What he’d seen means nothing to him. Tom is an unwelcome stranger. 

 

“Go,” Tom says quietly, not looking at Chris anymore.

 

“Just go.”

 

“Ok. Goodbye,” Chris gives Tom a stiff nod, already turning away from him.

 

He walks slowly at first, his palms clenched fists in fear of an unexpected attack from Tom's men charging at him.

 

“Goodbye,” Tom’s whisper comes from behind him. That, and nothing else.  

  
  
  
  


Suddenly, it’s all so quiet.

  
  
  


\--------------

  
  
  


The sky is orange with the sun setting behind the urban horizon, and Chris walks towards the city as fast as he can.

 

Through the outbreak of his thoughts, Chris grips the two money bills Tom had handed him, as if they are his anchor, his promise to get back home.

 

He does not look back as he walks. Not even once.

  
  
  


\-----------------

  
  


For moments, Tom stares at Chris’s figure disappearing into the distance.

 

“Stupid, it’s just- stupid,” he hisses when the car’s engine starts, turning to kick one of the tires again.

 

He climbs into the car seat, crosses his arms over his chest, and drops his forehead to the window, dully watching the moving view as the vehicle drives away. 

 

“Hey boss, what’s up.”

 

Tom sighs impatiently. He wants to speak to nobody. Absolutely nobody.

 

“Nothing Zig, nothing at all. I’m in a shitty mood, my dick is all sad and soft, and I stink with sweat.”

 

“Everything is exactly as it used to be.”

 

Zig stares at him, utterly confused.

 

“But- but boss, we got the money.”

 

For moments, Tom does not reply, his gaze stoically set at the window.

 

“Yeah,” he says, his words stretching lazily, “yeah, we got the money.”

 

And he wants it all to disappear into thin air.

  
  
  


For all the things that money cannot buy.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, below is the next chapter :)
> 
> I added a few warnings in the chapter notes.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this, my skin is all prickling like it always does before a post of a new chapter... heehee :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter - Some violence is ahead, yet nothing graphic.

The bar reeks with heavy odor of cigarette smoke so heavy he imagines he can taste it on his tongue.

 

Their table is cluttered with glasses of expensive yet crude, inferior alcohol - the type one buys in order to impress whoever is looking.

 

“What do you say Tom.”

 

Tom taps his index finger on the shiny, lacquer covered table surface. 

 

“I say,” he says carefully, “that this might work, though this operation is probably the last one that will.”

 

“How so,” Ravitz sucks more of his cigarette.

 

“The police may be slow to understand, or mingy with their muscle, but they are not dumb,” Tom replies, thinking of one police officer in particular. 

 

“Despite what it seems, they are progressively learning our course of action with small banks, and they will, eventually get to us.”

 

“I see,” Ravits says, obviously unimpressed with Tom’s observation. He doesn’t like Tom, not the least.

 

“Tell me Hiddleston. Are you… unhappy?” he asks, lazily dusting his cigarette on the ashtray.

 

Tom raises an eyebrow.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Zig tells me you are not very cheerful during money time, not even when it’s a happy jackpot.”

 

Tom looks evenly at him.

 

“I never was.”

 

Ravitz shrugs disapprovingly.

 

“Yeah, but Zig is worried about you, tells me it’s gotten worse.”

 

The little telltale. _ What in god’s name does he want with me.   _

 

“I don’t like running into the police Ravitz.” 

 

“And I don’t like taking hostages,” Tom says, knowing that denying this is useless. 

 

“We can take out these operations at night, and mostly avoid both. We’ll need some more muscle and brain, but still, it’s possible. It’s clean. It’s quiet.”

 

Ravitz’s gaze is as cold as a stone. The bastard doesn’t give a damn about hostages. He wants the filthy money while investing the bare minimum.

 

“Shane wants you on this,” he says plainly, “and so do I.”

 

Tom looks away from the man, drumming his fingers on the wooden table. He is lost in thought when one of the waitresses attends their table, collecting empty glasses and addresses him.

 

“Anything to drink Tom?” she asks with a wink and a small smile.

 

She’s pretty. Very pretty.

 

“Have you some freshly squeezed orange juice?”

 

The girl, Melinda, he thinks, blinks at him, her smile faltering a little.

 

“Um, we have a few oranges in the back, but I don’t think they were meant for juice.”

 

“I’ll pay you twice the usual price and thrice as a tip if you’ll work your connections here to get it done for me,” Tom grins at her.

 

She blinks at him again, but this time her smile widens.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says and leaves with another wink.

 

“Orange juice?” Ravitz asks incredulously, “What the hell is wrong with you Tom? What’s next - oatmeal with honey on the bar?”

 

“The blasted alcohol messes with my mind. Makes me slow and dumb. I don’t like it.” he looks straight into Ravitz’s eyes.

 

Ravitz gnaws his jaws, runs his hand over his stubble and takes a large sip from his pompous alcohol glass.

 

“You’ll do this Tom.”

 

Tom crosses his arms over his chest, inhaling deeply as another tasteless song starts playing in the background.

 

“Right,” he mutters, eyes slowly closing.

 

“Right.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Tom closes the door behind him with a tired sigh.

 

“Anybody missed me,” he mutters, but the empty walls don’t say much.

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

He takes a warm, long shower, and heads to his bed soon after, not in the mood to do anything else.

 

He lies awake in his bed, not sleepy at all, and wonders.

 

He could have brought Melinda with him, to spend a careless, fun night with, yet he did not. 

 

Because - that’s not where the real game plays.

 

Chris… Hemsworth.

 

Alone his room, staring into the dark, Tom snorts. 

 

One purely chance encounter with the man is all it took.

 

Tom wonders about him once again, one of many times, about Chris’s behavior, about his warm, strong neck under Tom’s grip, about his children and how they might look like.

 

And it’s only funny that it’s a police officer that truly captures Tom’s attention, like nobody else does. Like nobody else has for a long, estranged time.

 

And if tomorrow morning Tom sets out to commit yet another theft, the joke’s on him.

 

“I’m about to lose the game,” Tom mutters, arms clasped uncomfortably between his head to the bed, “about to lose the game.” 

  
  
  


\------------

  
  


The night is short and long all at once, restless. Tom dreams of chasing someone he wants with a bag of stolen money hanging heavily on his back.

 

He wakes up, body clammy with sweat, head dizzy with fuzzy dream memories.

 

Today, he is set out to steal again.

  
  
  


\------------

  
  
  


Standing behind the alley’s wall, concealed from the pedestrians wandering the main street, Tom silently watches the A&D bank building - his target, from across the street.

 

“Bron,” he speaks to his wireless, “Out and about in two.”

 

“Waiting for your call Tommy boy.”

 

“Call me Tommy boy one more time and I’ll hurt you Bron,” Tom says, but Bron only chuckles.

 

“Huh, - that’s cute. I’m all set Tommy. Just say the word.”

 

Tom exhales a tight sigh. He folds his wireless back into his pocket with a snap.

 

He must remain focused.

 

“Zig, you ready?”

 

“Yes boss.”

 

Tom glances behind him - and frowns.

 

“What are you grinning about?”

 

“We make a good team boss,” Zig winks at him, the little singer, “I like working with you.”

 

“Yeah?” Tom raises an eyebrow, “Is that why you go talking rubbish to Ravitz about me?”

 

ZIg’s grin falters and his mouth opens and closes in surprise. Ah, he didn't think Ravits would tell.

 

“Boss, I- I wasn’t ratting on you. It’s just that- you ain’t happy no more boss, not even when we get the money, not when we get the pretty girls, I was worried about you-”

 

“If you worry about me so damn much, then do it quietly instead of going on singing about it to everyone,” Tom looks right into Zig’s eyes.

 

Zig opens his mouth to answer, but Tom silences him immediately.

 

“And meddle your own business. Leave mine alone.”

 

Tom’s pager chimes then, breaking Tom’s cool gaze.

 

“Cue us, Tommy boy, we’re waiting only for you.”

 

Tom snatches his device open.

 

“You little bastard,” he cuts, and turns to look once more at his target, quickly inspecting their surroundings.

 

“There’s your cue. Go now.”

 

“Why, thank you, little Tommy. Bron is out - and about,” Bron announces, and disconnects their conversation with a click.

 

Within a moment, from the other side of the street, Tom spots Bron and Lomy’s figures emerging from behind one of the darkened allies’ walls, neatly marching towards the bank.

 

“Ok Zig,” Tom stretches his shoulders, “We are on. Keep it quiet and follow me.”

 

“Yes boss.”

 

Tom takes a deep, troubled breath. 

 

He pulls his navy blue cap on along with his dark sunglasses, and prepares himself.

  
  


\---------------

  
  


He quickly crosses the bank’s main hall, merely glancing at the hostages lying on the floor, frozen with horror upon Tom’s boys’ arrival.

 

He is vehemently meticulous about never making eye contact with any of the hostages, as his stomach churns every time he does. Highly unnecessary.

 

Bron gestures with his chin at a black door at the left corner of the hall, and Tom swiftly snatches a magnetic card from Bron’s hand, not making eye contact with him as well. Highly annoying.

 

The card dismantles the locked door, letting it open.

 

The room revealed to Tom is medium sized, and at its middle is their so-called, notorious prize.

 

“Zig,” Tom says quietly.

 

“I will do what I’m supposed to do right now, and you will do yours. Stand behind me, watch for anything, and warn me only when absolutely necessary.”

 

“Yes boss.”

 

“Talk as little as possible,” Tom adds absently, and inspects his victim.

 

This old building is housing an old bank, and an old, fat safe positioned right at the center of it.

 

With a smooth, knowing motion, Tom fishes a medical stethoscope from his backpack.

 

He nears the metallic strongbox, assessing it with his eyes as he adjusts the earpieces into his ears. They don’t have much time until the blues will approach the crime scene. 

 

Dropping his eyes to a neutral spot on the floor, Tom places the disc-shaped resonator on the metallic surface, his palm on the dial’s pulley - turning it slightly.

 

Carefully, he listens.

 

The dial begins to rattle gently, its numbers circling back and forth.

 

With his eyes closed, Tom angles the pulley, hearing nothing but the clicking pulse of the safe. 

 

And in between the gentle ticks - Tom’s mind wanders. 

 

_ The blues. _

 

_ Will Chris be among the cops who seize the bank? Will Tom catch a glimpse of him from afar? _

 

There’s a click, a turn, and then another click - the code is slowly cracking.

 

And what if Chris sees him? Will he remember Tom? Will he speak to Tom civilly should they somehow be alone with each other?

 

And what can Tom possibly say that could make Chris listen?

 

Tom pauses to gather his focus. He is close, he can feel it through the cold, thick rattles of steel under his hands.

 

He exhales delicately, turning the pulley seven ticks to the left, and pushes the center of the steel door inwards.

 

Until a tamed snap echoes through his earpieces, making Tom pause.

 

With a heavy, lazy creak, the massive iron door begins to open. 

 

Success.

 

“Well, shit boss,” he can hear the grin in Zig’s voice, “you’re too good at this. A fucking artist.”

 

Tom stares at the piles of bills in front of him, his face straightening. He feels nothing. Not even an ounce of satisfaction.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, brows knitting together.

 

“Yes boss,” Zig kneels next to Tom, pulling two large bags from his backpack.

 

Together they reach for the knotted bills and place bun after bun into the first bag.

 

They work quickly, with Tom wordless and Zig uttering thrilled nonsense about his plans for his share. They succeed at stacking a little less than a half of the second handbag, when suddenly Tom’s cell-phone rings.

“Damn,” he hisses, and draws the device to his ear.

 

_ This can’t be good, _

 

“Talk.”

 

“There’s heat Tommy. Blues are nearby, someone pulled the alarm.”

 

“Time?”

 

“A little less than five I think.”

 

“Less than five, bloody hell,” he mutters, and shoves the device back into his pocket.

 

Zig understands right away, looking at Tom with growing alarm.

 

“We’re leaving,” Tom informs him, and looks at the half-empty bag, making a quick decision right there and then.

 

“Take the full bag and go. Right now.”

 

“What? But boss-”

 

“Take it!” Tom shoves the bag into his hands. If Zig leaves now, while they are still out of the cops’ reach, at least one of the bags are safe from the police.

 

“You’ll stay here by yourself?”

 

“I’m collecting what’s left of the money Zig,” Tom feels impatience boiling within, they can’t waste any more time. “Those bills must be delivered Zig, you understand me?”

 

“We can make it together boss,-”

 

“Get the hell out of here Zig, you’ll get us both caught,” Tom grits, grabbing ZIg’s shoulder and shoving him away,  “Get the hell out.”

 

“Alright boss, alright, don’t get mad at me, I’ll be waiting for you with the other guys,” Zig rubs his shoulder, and after another quick, hesitating look, he turns away towards the back door, disappearing from Tom’s line of sight.

 

“Finally,” Tom breathes, swallowing thickly, “That little bastard. Finally.” 

 

He wipes the sweat from his brow and kneels again, collecting as many bill buns from the bottom shelf as possible.

 

The seconds pass. Soon, Tom glances at his watch.  

 

He is out of time, _ he must go, now. _

 

Tom hefts the bag over his shoulder with a huff, and rushes towards the exit. Weapon in hand, he carefully pushes the door open, peering outside. 

 

With the area seemingly clear, Tom hurries along, sucking in a breath when the cool evening air hits his body, a sharp contrast to the building’s warmer interior.

 

The sun is about to set on the horizon, leaving only its violent pink shades coloring the sky, darkening rapidly.

 

Tightening the bag over his shoulders, he starts walking, lowering his head as he heads towards their agreed back alley, backpack hanging over his back like a weighing stone.

 

Images from his dream flash in his mind’s eyes.

 

The street is eerily quiet around him. He checks his watch - and quickens his steps.

 

Heat time.

 

It is then that the lightest rattle comes from behind him. Like a swish of clothes.

 

Tom almost misses it, but, it’s there, before he is able to form any kind of response. 

 

Footsteps approaching.

 

Tom’s heart drops.

 

“Hold it right there.”

 

Tom freezes on the spot. The voice startles him, sending a cold, gripping shiver through his body.

 

“Turn around with your arms on your head, right now.”

 

Tom blinks behind the dark lens of his sunglasses, his lips slightly parted. That voice. That low, timber voice.

 

Could it be?

 

Slowly placing his arms behind his head, Tom turns around with caution, each beat of his heart like a kick on his ribcage.

 

And it is him, just a few feet away, the sight of him sending a hot, prickling wave through Tom’s chest.

 

Chris is pointing his gun right at Tom’s chest.

 

“Put your weapon on the floor and kick it over to me with your foot. Make a sudden movement and I’ll shoot.”

 

With a nod, Tom places his gun on the floor, then kicks it over to Chris, who collects it with a swift movement.

 

He hasn’t recognized Tom yet, not with his dark sunglasses and blue cap hiding his face.

 

“Now your bag. Place it on the floor.”

 

“Alright,” Tom says in what he hopes is a calm tone, and removes the bag

stacked with stolen money from his shoulder, and lays on the floor.

 

He’s been caught, realization crushes. Chris has caught him.

 

“Good, now straighten up and put your hands behind your head.”

 

Slowly, Tom straightens and puts his arms as instructed. 

 

He should feel hysterical, devastated, even desperate, but instead - a strange, frightening calm is oozing through his thoughts. A sense of forbidden good suddenly burns in his belly.

 

He won’t have to face Ravitz, Zig, or any other crime related member tonight. 

 

_ A way out, out of there _ , his heart whispers. 

 

Chris is looking at him, his face a mixture of indifference and readiness for combat.

 

They are alone, Tom realizes. Alone, before everything happens.  _ Just him and me. _

 

With utmost caution, Tom tries to reach for his cap.

 

“I told you to stay still,” Chris warns him, and Tom spreads his palms, showing Chris he means no harm.

 

“I just want to take off my hat,” Tom says, pulling the cap off his head and slipping his dark sunglasses away from his face.

 

Chris’s eyebrows narrow suspiciously at first, but when Tom’s face is revealed, he exhales, his eyes growing large again.

 

For the longest moment, they stare at each other.

 

“The tables have turned,” Tom’s voice breaks the silence.

 

Chris does not respond. 

 

Tom takes a deep breath. He wants them to talk, to have a conversation, even if just for a few moments.

 

He’s more than just a stupid thief.

 

“I wondered whether I’d meet you here,” Tom licks his dry lips.

 

“How have you been.” 

 

Chris’s chest rises and falls with his deep breaths, hands palming the barrel of his gun.

 

“Spare it. I am not your friend.”

 

That stings a little, but Tom stays put. The sweet is not the sweet without the sour.

 

“I can see the logic in that,” Tom nods at him.

 

“What can I say that is acceptable then?”

 

“Nothing,” Chris tells him, “nothing. Keep it quiet.”

 

An electronic beep is heard then, making Chris reach to touch his ear.

 

“Suspect it with me,” Chris says tersely, making Tom snort internally, remembering the dramatic toss of the same microphone to the floor during their previous encounter.

 

The idiots won’t let Chris do his job.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris says, impatient, then pauses, licking his lips thoughtfully, “Um -Tom. His name is Tom.”

 

Tom’s belly gushes with warmth.

 

_ He remembers my name. _

 

“Alright, Chris out,” Chris says, and ends the conversation.

 

When none of them speaks, Tom eyes him, head to toe.

 

Chris is wearing a dark pair of jeans along with a black plain t-shirt, a classic attire of a low profile cop on the field. 

 

Soon Chris’s men will arrive, and their time alone will come to an end.

 

He has nothing to lose.

 

“What does a sweet, handsome man like you have to do with those silly, skill-less people?”’

 

Chris blinks at him, unprepared for Tom’s comment.

 

“What are you talking about,” he defends himself, then clicks his tongue with irritation, “I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

 

Tom holds Chris’s eyes, undeterred.

 

Chris - won’t harm him. Not unless Tom poses an actual, immediate threat. An honest to god, true little cop.

 

“Those guys are only pulling you back. I know how that feels.”

 

Chris shakes his head, pursing his lips.

 

“What are you trying to do?” he frowns at Tom, “You think this nonsense you're saying will make me let you go?” 

 

The answer is clear to him, but Tom considers this for a short moment. Not so long ago, handling a situation with someone other than Chris, Tom might have tried to do something along the lines Chris just suggested.

 

“No,” Tom shakes his head, “No. that is not what I’m-”

 

Tom pauses then, his mouth left hanging open when something odd appears at the corner of his eye.

 

There, Tom sees a familiar figure, quietly sneaking closer to Chris from behind.

 

Zig.

 

Tom almost chokes on his breath. The words die on his lips.

 

Zig locks eyes with him, pressing his index finger to his lips, signaling Tom to remain quiet. 

 

He lifts his weapon, and aims.

 

“No,” Tom breathes, horror gripping him, crushing his chest.

 

From that moment on, the scene unfolds in a breath-catching swiftness, a chain of events Tom will barely be able to describe coherently later on.

 

“What,” Chris mouths, noticing the change in Tom’s behavior. His eyebrows knit in confusion.

 

He turns his head to look, and Tom’s heart twists.

 

“Chris, wait,- Zig, no!” 

 

Behind Chris, Zig’s dark figure points his gun - and pulls the trigger. 

 

A horrifying bang shoots, sucking the air out of Tom’s lungs, making his ears ring painfully.

 

The explosion blinds him. For horrible moments, he’s blind.

 

When his vision returns to him, Chris’s body is lying on the floor, hurled onto itself. Tom’s head is already pounding when he sees Zig stepping closer to Chris, staring at his dreadful doing. 

 

“Stay away from him!” Tom charges at Zig, grabbing his shirt and violently shoving him away, terrified.

 

“I’m sorry boss, I thought you were in trouble,” Zig mumbles behind him, but Tom can’t hear him altogether, his heart hammering in his chest as he kneels down next to Chris. 

 

Chris’s body is curled around his middle, his breaths coming out short and shallow, hands pressed against his stomach, apparently covering his wound.

 

“It’s ok, Chris, it’s alright,” Tom speaks as steadily as possible, already removing his jacket and reaching to cover the wound.

 

“Let me see,” Tom pries open Chris’s tightly knotted hands, when a strangled whimper comes from Chris’s mouth, resisting him.

 

“Get- away from me,” 

 

Tom bites his lower lip, ignoring Chris’s demand and using more force to wring Chris’s hands away.

 

“Please Chris, relax, let me see.” 

 

He swallows thickly when he sees the gash, an angry red tear to the lower left of Chris’s stomach, just above his waist.

 

He wastes no time and presses his folded jacket to the wound, trying to prevent as much blood loss as possible.

 

“Leave me,”- Chris rasps, eyes tightly shut, his mouth a pale slit, drawing quick, short breaths.

 

“- Leave me alone.”

 

Tom exhales heavily, shaking his head in despair.

 

“I never meant for this to happen, god, Chris, please believe me,” he mutters, struggling to keep a wave of panic from taking over him.

 

Chris heaves under Tom’s ministrations, his forehead shining with drops of sweat.

 

Tom touches his shoulder, watching Chris’s distraught face. 

 

Something draws him to look at Zig then, who’s standing nearby, silently gaping at him and watching Tom’s doings.

 

“What did you do,” Tom breathes a low growl. He’s lost.

 

“I thought- you were in trouble boss,” he says unevenly, staring wide-eyed at Tom.

 

“You’re lying,” Tom hisses at him.

 

“He made you a cop lover,” Zig indicates his gun at Chris’s body, sucking the air out of Tom’s chest.

 

The man is a walking time bomb, Tom realizes. With his weapon in his hand, the man is an immediate, fatal threat.

 

“Go now, run while you still can,” Tom tells him firmly yet cautiously. He has to be smart about this. He must. 

 

“Take the money with you and run.”

 

“You staying with him?” Zig asks him incredulously.

 

“You’re making a mistake boss, he’s a fucking cop, a bad omen, the worst you can imagine,” Zig points his finger this time.

 

Anger looms in his chest, but Tom inhales deeply, keeping it at bay. 

 

“I told you Zig -my business is my own. Leave it,” Tom says in a low, composed voice. 

 

“Disappear Zig,” he tells him, and hopes this is the last time he has to see Zig’s face in this lifetime.

 

“Disappear.” 

 

Zig stares at him, his lips pressed tightly together. He bends and hefts Tom’s back onto his back, then turns to look at him again, face taut with dissatisfaction.

 

“He ain’t nothing but muscles and pretty face boss,” he says, indicating his gun at Chris’s body again, making Tom shudder violently within. 

 

“You could have told me boss,” Zig looks at him meaningfully, “you could have told me”.

 

“I’m a better man than him. I would have taken you out, shown you some good time. I would have bought you gifts, made you feel beautiful. Whatever you want.”

 

“Fucking jerk that cop,” Zig spits on the floor and wipes his mouth, ” - you don’t even know him. Me, I’m your buddy, we fucking work together.”

 

Tom hears the words, but hardly understands. They come as complete chaos to him. His stomach twists and his throat tightens.

 

“Leave, take the money and go,” he says hoarsely, averting his gaze away. He can’t look at Zig’s face anymore.

 

He turns to look at Chris, who is watching Tom through half-lidded eyes.

 

Behind him, Tom hears Zig muttering to himself, then walking away, taking both of the money bags with him. 

 

Tom mentally pushes all of it aside.

 

“Chris,” he says lightly, “I’m going to get help,” and pulls the small microphone from Chris’s ear.

 

“Don’t hurt them,” Chris mumbles, consciously or not, Tom is not sure, and reaches to caress Chris’s arm.

 

“It’s ok, it’s alright,” he mutters, and adjusts the small microphone into his ear.

 

“Mike, it’s Tom here.”

 

There are a few moments of a tense pause, and if not for the dire circumstances, Tom would have laughed out loud at the obvious puzzlement gripping the man at the other side of the line. 

 

“Where’s Chris,” Mike demands.

 

“Chris is down, Mike. Get an ambulance to follow you and your men, and be quick about it.”

 

Another silent pause makes Tom’s nerves stand on an edge.

 

“I kid you not Mike, your officer took a bullet. I’m keeping his wound as stable as possible, but I am no doctor as you can imagine. Get here already.”

 

Mike breathes into the microphone, and then-

 

“This better be true Hiddleston. I’m on my way, keep him stable,” Mike cuts, and ends the conversation.

 

“Would not have have thought about it if not for you,” Tom grumbles, and tosses the microphone away. 

 

He inspects Chris’s wound again, adjusting the cloth when he notices some of the blood loss has renewed. The change of pressure draws another low moan from Chris.

 

“I spoke to your men, Mike is on his way with help,” he touches Chris’s shoulder.

 

Chris’s eyes have fluttered closed, his breaths now coming in small, short heaves. 

 

“Chris,” Tom observes him with growing alarm.

 

Chris’s body grows almost completely still, his breaths gradually declining into a heavy slur.

 

“Hey,” Tom squeezes Chris’s shoulder for a response, but his body only slackens further.

 

“Chris,” Tom calls urgently, distress twisting his chest painfully, “Wake up.”

 

“Chris!” Tom calls close to his face, shaking Chris’s shoulder almost violently, only withholding back in favor of not aggravating Chris’s wound.

 

“Open your eyes,” he implores him, “You are seeing your kids again, you hear?” 

 

Chris lies motionless, and Tom swears out loud. He lifts his arm, about to slap him, when Chris’s eyes flutter open.

 

“Chris,” Tom’s heart drops, “you must stay awake.”

 

Chris blinks lazily at him, moaning lowly.

 

“Tired,” he murmurs heavily, then loses focus again.

 

“You’ll be fine,” Tom reassure him, instinctively leaning closer, “just stay awake, I’m here with you.”

 

“Cold,” Chris mutters, shaking when a fierce shiver takes him.

 

“It’s ok,” Tom soothes him, then, starts rubbing his hand over Chris’s arm, trying to warm him.

 

“Help is on the way,” Tom says quietly, “but you must keep your eyes open, ok?”

 

“Don’t know,” Chris mumbles, his eyes falling shut again, and Tom hisses with agony.

 

“There’s nothing to know Chris, just- talk to me ok? Talk to me,-” he shakes him again, mind frantically searching.

 

“Tell me something. Anything. Your mum, your kids.”

 

Chris mumbles something then, eyes still closed, and he’s there, he can hear Tom, but he’s too incoherent to speak.

 

“Ok, ok,” Tom massages his shoulder, swallowing thickly, “I’m going to speak then, I’ll talk to you. Are you with me? Are you awake?”

 

Chris slits his eyes open, peering at Tom sleepily, and Tom stares back at what could have been an amusing expression.

 

Their immediate environment is quiet. They are alone, by themselves.

 

_ This is it,  _ he realizes with a rush.  _ This is our private conversation. _

 

“I want you to know something about me, something important,” Tom tells him. The words come to him before he considers them rationally.

 

“I didn’t want to come here today. I don’t enjoy doing what I do.”

 

“The truth is, up until you got hurt, meeting you is the nicest thing that happened to me today. It’s the nicest thing that has happened to me in a long, long time.”

 

Chris is now looking sideways, but his eyes are relatively focused, his throat working and pulsing with his heart. He is listening.

 

“I kept thinking what would I possibly say to you, should we somehow have a chance to speak.”

 

Tom inhales deeply, swallowing hard. Chris’s eyes fall shut again, and Tom leans closer, shaking his shoulder.

 

“Hey, wake up,” he breathes, his heartbeat in his ears. When Chris responds, Tom smiles at him shakily.

“I’d also wondered whether you’d agree to give me your phone number.”

 

Chris simply stares at him, eyes glazed with confusion, drawing a breathy chuckle from Tom.

 

“I would have given you mine of course, but you- you’re all too shy to call me, aren’t you.” 

 

Tom drags his thumb over Chris’s shoulder, close to his neck. He does not know if he’s allowed to do so, yet he does it still.

 

“You’ll be fine Chris, just fine.”

 

Chris is quiet. He is not shivering anymore, yet his focus comes and goes. Tom is not sure how much of what he says comes through to Chris, but right now it doesn’t matter. 

 

Cautiously, he reaches, and touches his fingertips to Chris’s brow.

 

“Hey,” Tom leans closer to him, “You can’t sleep yet.”

 

A booming noise of nearing vehicles startles him. He turns his head to look, and feels a pang of disappointment. Their moment together is over.

 

“Your friends are here.”

 

Chris is watching them too, eyes squinting at the vehicles’ flashing headlights.

 

“You see?” Tom says lightly, almost regretting their arrival.

 

“I told you you’d be fine,” he glances at the wound again, frowning.

 

“You need immediate medical attention,” Tom mutters, re-adjusting the stoppering cloth, when he hears Chris panting, as if straining to say something.

 

“Did you say something?” he leans over immediately, “What did you say?”

 

Chris speaks quietly, as if his throat is parched.

 

“They’ll catch you.”

 

Tom glances behind him again, gazing expressionlessly at the police vehicles and a single ambulance nearing them, now parking a few meters away from him and Chris.

 

That is true.

 

He recognizes Mike, banging the car’s door open and exiting the vehicle in a rush.

 

“Get away from him Hiddleston, right about now.”

 

Tom locks his eyes with him, hoping Mike can see exactly what Tom thinks of his empty threat.

 

“Send a bloody doctor, he’s bleeding.”

 

Mike draws his gun and aims it at Tom

 

“Right about now I said!”

 

“He’ll lose more blood and die if I release his wound you fucking idiot!” Tom barks at him, “send help for heaven’s sake!”

 

Mike mutters a few words, no doubt cursing Tom, and Tom turns his attention back to Chris.

 

“They’ll catch you,” Chris whispers hoarsely again, this time more urgently.

 

Tom furrows his eyebrows, strangely calm as he exhales a mild sigh. He braids his fingers through Chris’s hair, then brushes his knuckles over Chris’s cheek.

 

It is a cruel, piercing joke that Chris is a cop.

 

Or perhaps it’s a cold, staggering slap of irony, showing Tom what he’s missing.

 

“Let them have me, then,” he murmurs, and leans over, planting a kiss on Chris’s brow.

 

He gasps as someone grabs his shoulder and yanks him back, first to his knees and then to his legs, both of his arms held tight by two officers.

 

“The left of his stomach!”, he shouts when two paramedics kneel next to Chris, watching them tend him until a third figure approaches him, blocking any sight of Chris.

 

“Did you shoot him?” Mike demands, invading Tom’s personal space and crudely searching Tom’s arms, waist, and thighs - and finds nothing.

“No.” 

Mike looks closely at him, searching Tom’s face.

 

“Right. You’re coming with me.”

 

He gestures his arm to the two cops clutching Tom’s arms. 

 

“-Take him.”

 

Tom clicks his tongue, Mike means nothing to him, then tilts his head to see behind Mike, trying to see Chris once more.

 

Chris is lying on the floor, moaning softly as the medics are tending him.

 

“You’ll be fine Chris,” Tom calls out loud enough for Chris to hear.

 

“Say hello to the kids for me.”

 

Chris blinks his eyes open. When their eyes meet, an uncontrollable grin spreads on Tom’s lips.

 

“I’ll see you around,” Tom cranes his neck to see Chris for the last time.

 

“Keep it down, you mad moron,” one of the faceless cops tugs harshly at his arm, urging him forward until they both push Tom into the car’s backseat.

 

“I was saying goodbye to my friend,” Tom tells her, blood still gushing with adrenaline.  

 

She ignores him and his wry joke, closing the door dismissively with a low thump.

 

“Goodbye - until next time,” Tom mutters as the car begins the drive, lying his head backwards onto the rough cushion, calming his breaths.

 

Slowly, as the moments pass and they gain more and more distance from the crime scene, Tom’s throat gradually clears and laxes.

 

His eyes fall shut as his energies drop, letting those people take him.

 

Tonight, he won’t have to face Ravitz, Zig, or Shane. Nobody will call him little Tommy Boy.

 

This was inevitable, he knows deep inside, not ready to admit it out loud.

 

Not yet.

 

Instead, he is grateful for the silence.

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> Below is the new chapter, I really hope you'll enjoy it.  
> Warnings - in my opinion, none.
> 
> A short comment before you read -  
> You should know that I am in no way affiliated with medicine, and I have absolutely no professional training nor any academic knowledge about this fascinating subject.
> 
> Also, it happens to be that I am not a police officer (though my father used to be, teehee), nor have I ever been exposed to any law enforcement procedure what so ever.
> 
> I'm letting you know this because - well, you'll just read and see :) Let's just say that the plot runs in directions I had to engineer to my interests in order to make it work. Having said that - I don't think I broke the local laws of physics or anything.
> 
> Bah. Too many thoughts. 
> 
> Hope you'll like it ;)

“Chris.”

 

The voice startles him.

 

Chris blinks, but closes his eyes right away, the light too bright for him.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,-”

 

“There, the light is dimmer now.”

 

An unfamiliar male voice.

 

Chris slits his eyes open. A man- a doctor, comes into sight.

 

Hospital. He’s in the hospital, lying in a hospital bed.

 

He lifts his head to see a little better, but drops back to the pillow when a wave of dizziness washes over him. His head feels heavy. He wants to get back to sleep.

 

Somebody touches his shoulder.

 

“Chris,” the man says. “I’m doctor Gale. You are in Wolfson hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?”

 

Chris narrows his eyes, fighting back his fatigue. 

 

He doesn’t understand at first, but the confusion quickly transforms into a memory.

 

He got shot. During a stakeout.

 

Chris looks at the man who spoke to him. The doctor.

 

“Yes,” he says, wincing at his voice, as hoarse as he’d never heard it before.

 

“Ok, good,” the doctor nods at him. He appears thoughtful then, perhaps considering what to say next, then turns his attention back to Chris when he’s ready.

 

“Your family is just outside the room. I came here to speak to you in private before we let them in and inform everyone of your condition.”

 

Chris, still groggy with uncomfortable sleep, tries to keep his face blank.

 

“Ok,” he nods stiffly.

 

“Alright, good. You’ve been brought here with a wound shot to the lower left of your torso. Do you remember that?”

 

The lower left of his torso.

 

“I do.”

 

“Good. We took you straight into surgery once you got here. Do you recall that as well?”

 

Chris frowns with effort to remember. He needs to think about this, but-

 

“I think I do, though somewhat vaguely.”

 

“That’s fine, that’s definitely sufficient. I’m glad. Now, Chris.” 

 

The doctor tells him about his wound, about how lucky Chris is, for the bullet just missed the lower segment of his spine, and for the surgery being successful in removing it from his body.

 

Chris listens, working hard to maintain his focus during the doctor’s long, complex speech. 

 

He remains completely silent, his thoughts tangling into each other. 

 

He knows nothing.  

 

He feels nothing.

 

He’s very, very tired.

  
  


\------

  
  


As the days pass, more and more memories tag at his conscious.

 

He remembers the dark alleyway, he remembers Tom turning to face him and setting his weapon on the floor, he remembers conversing with him.

 

He remembers Tom’s calm expression changing to utter horror, a sight he won’t forget for as long as he’s alive.

 

He remembers the piercing pain, then himself crumbling to the floor, and arsenic spider like sense of cold slithering over his skin.

  
  


\-------

 

Chris spends three, long, weeks in the local hospital.

 

His legs are unstable with weakness, his back aches constantly. At times, he remains to lie in his hospital bed, too tired or simply unable to walk.

 

When he is finally capable of roaming around, Chris makes a few steps on his own, but when nobody looks, he finds the nearest wall and leans on it, body exhausted and muscles churning, biting his lip as he rubs his left to soothe the ache.

 

These are uncertain, estranged days.  Chris wishes he could wipe all of them away from his memory, turn back time and go back to being the man he used to be.

  
  


\---------------

  
  
  


His doctors had wanted to extend his hospitalization period, yet Chris had refused vehemently, dismissing any attempt, even from his family, to prolong in his stay in the hospital.

 

He wanted out. Out of this place.

 

A meeting with the department’s senior doctor was set for him for the day of his release, for further evaluation of his wound and general physique.

 

During his last days at the hospital, Chris is infinitely confused.

 

Intimidated to his bones prior to his meeting with the doctor, Chris’s sleep is robbed from him.

  
  
  


\-------

  
  
  


“Hemsworth Chris?”

 

Chris looks up from his lap.

 

“Please come in,” the nurse smiles politely at him, “the doctor is waiting for you.”

 

“Thanks,” he mutters. 

 

He rises stiffly from his chair, clutching his left as he does so, and walks slowly to the door, lips pressed into a thin, troubled line.

  
  


\-----

  
  


“So,” the doctor says, reading through Chris’s file.

 

“Chris,” he lifts his eyes, meeting Chris’s for the first time since he entered the room, “I see you’ve been through quite a bit.”

 

“You are about to be released,” he continues, “That is good, that is good. I can also see that you can walk, albeit slowly.”

 

“Yeah,” Chris nods. 

 

“Well then. How are you feeling?”

 

Chris clears his throat.

 

“I am- ok, but I’m,” he licks his lips, “I’m in pain.”

 

“My legs are not very stable, and my back is aching constantly. “ 

 

Chris hesitates, inhaling deeply before he says the words out loud.

 

“Walking is difficult, and very tiring. I’m- I’m weak. I don’t know what to do.”

 

The doctor nods, pursing his lips sympathetically.

 

“Yes, these symptoms are to be expected in your condition. Hopefully, they shall ease with time.”

 

Chris blinks, a heavy ball forming in his chest, sinking over his diaphragm like led.

 

“Hopefully?”

 

The doctor hums, adjusting his glasses up his nose.

 

“Regretfully, there are no medications that can eliminate your symptoms. The best we can do is prescribe you some pills against your fatigue and general weakness, and hope your body shall overcome them as time passes. Some physical exercise may help, yet I can’t promise anything.”

 

Chris is motionless in his seat, hearing the doctor’s words, yet unable to respond. It’s too much, too much information thrown at him in a manner of seconds.

 

“Like I said, I can prescribe you a few painkillers or stimulants, whichever you’ll prefer, but that’s the best I can do for you.”

 

The doctor sighs quietly, clearing his throat.

 

“Well then. Other than that. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

Chris tries to reach for questions he might benefit from, but his mind is at a loss. He glances the wall behind the doctor, heavily loaded with thick, sophisticated looking tomes, their titles containing long, unfamiliar words. He shakes his head, uttered speechless.

 

“Is that… Is that it? I mean, when will I-, when will I be able to walk normally again? Go for a jog?” 

 

He swallows, belly twisting for the millionth time since that awful night he was shot.

 

“Swim?” 

 

The doctor tilts his chin upwards, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded over the table, appearing outrageously calm.

 

“Mr. Hemsworth.” He looks gravely at Chris. 

 

“You are lucky the bullet did not tear any vital organs in your stomach. You are lucky you can eat and digest properly.”

 

“You should be grateful your legs are still capable of carrying your body at all. Eighty percent of the people who suffer a wound such as yours shall never be able to walk properly again, and fifty percent of the rest will be supported by a cane for the rest of their lives.”

 

Chris’s fists clench under the table. Something within him implodes. He sees nothing. He feels nothing.

 

“A cane?” he whispers through tightly set jaws, rage spiraling through his head.

 

He wants to turn the doctor’s table over, to grab him by the neck and roar right into his face until he surrenders and hands over the goddamned answers for Chris’s cursed problems.  

 

He’s been falling through a black abyss for days and weeks now, and still not hitting any firm ground.

 

From across the table, the doctor fixes Chris with a stern, disapproving gaze.

 

“A cane.”

  
  
  


\------------------

  
  
  


Thankfully, no one is present in his hospital room when he returns. Quickly, in absolute silence - Chris collects the few belongings he’d brought for the duration of his stay.

 

He signs his release in haste and leaves the hospital building - his face straining as blank as a cold hard stone.

 

On his way to his car parked down the street, Chris enters a small alley to his left. He walks into the narrow passage, his steps slowing into a halt where he’s entirely inaccessible, out of any ear shot, and leans his shoulder on one of the concrete walls.

 

For moments, he stares expressionlessly at the dusty alleyway. 

 

Swallowing through a thick throat, he pushes his palms deep into his pockets.

 

He bites his lower lip, and slow, lazy tears start gliding over his cheeks. He wipes them away with his sleeve, muttering harsh, quiet swearings.

 

He stays there, wind cooling his damp face, until the worst of the shivers are gone from his chest.

  
  
  


\--------@@@@@--------

  
  
  


He is not sure for how long he is left there alone, seated on a solid, uncomfortable chair in front of an equally bland table.

 

After what he can only estimate as twenty minutes or so, Tom covers his mouth with a yawn.

 

His eyes are becoming heavy, eyelids almost dropping when finally the door opens, and Mike enters the room.

 

Tom wipes his face, clearing his throat. He straightens in his chair. He moves casually, yet he’s sharply alert upon seeing the man.

 

Wearing what is probably supposed to be a smart smile, Mike sits in front of Tom, his palm flattening over the table with a dull thud.

 

When Tom stares at him blankly, Mike taps his fingers on the table, his fake grin thinning away.

 

“I hear you won’t talk.”

 

“That is inaccurate,” Tom shakes his head, “I-”

 

“You made a request, yes, they told me,” Mike cuts in, “I just wanted to see this for myself.”

 

Tom holds Mike’s gaze, then draws a small note from his pocket and hands it to Mike.

 

“You think you’re something special, huh,” Mike snatches the note from Tom, a frown crunching his face as he reads.

 

“Why, you’re a fan of your fucking self, aren’t you now, you little son of a bitch.”

 

Tom presses his tongue to his teeth. 

 

Is that how Mike wants to play?

 

“A bitch who knew with whom to shag in the dirt, ending up with a fine lad such as myself.”

 

Mike snorts, then leans back in his chair, looking pensive while giving Tom a demeaning scowl.

 

Tom should be careful, very careful. He’s in their court now. 

 

However, this man succeeds to lure the oily little fox within Tom’s soul out of its dark cavern.

 

Mike tosses Tom’s note on the table then, dismissing it without words.

 

“You will talk.”

 

Tom looks at him cooly. The man is a bastard, reminding him of Ravitz, or Shane, of men he’d rather forget.

“You want the good old truth without getting your hands dirty? Without having to slap me or punch my face?” Tom eyes him.

 

“I know people who know people. The sweet little picture of my bruised face shall suddenly appear everywhere. Everyone will know that Mike and his chaps need to use their fists in order to get simple prisoners to talk.”

 

Mike’s eyes harden further with each word that comes from Tom’s mouth.

 

“I know plenty,” Tom tells him. “And I will play nice. I’ll give you no trouble at all. What’s written in my note is all I ask for.”

 

Tom exhales as calmly as possible, his chest taut.

 

“Get me what I want, and you will get yours.”

  
  
  


\------

  
  
  


Mike leaves the room shortly after, with Tom’s note folded in his pocket.

 

The note is scribbled with very few words, all of them which Tom remembers by heart - 

 

_ I shall answer your questions, only if asked by your colleague, the officer who was shot the day I was arrested - Chris Hemsworth.  _

 

_ T.H _

 

\-----@@@@@---- 

  
  
  


Chris wastes no time. There’s nothing for him to do at home.

 

He returns to work the day after he is released from the hospital.

  
  
  


\--------

  
  
  


In his cubic, Chris is reading through a new case file when he feels a squeeze to his shoulder.

 

“Good morning buddy,” Mike sits opposite to him.

 

“Good morning,” Chris lays the papers down.

 

Buddy. Mike has never called Chris ‘buddy’ before his injury.

 

Now, when Chris is unable to go out on the field and Mike is not in charge of him anymore, things have changed.

 

It rings phony.

 

“How are you feeling,” Mike sends him a smile.

 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Chris answers shortly. The recurring notion that people might pity him sets Chris on an un precedented edge.

 

“What can I do for you Mike.”

 

“Actually, there is something you can help me with, and it has to do with Tom Hiddleston.”

 

Chris’s attention is snapped. The sound of that name sends a shiver through him.

 

“While you were hospitalized, my boys tried to question him more than a few times. He refuses to talk.”

 

“However, he handed me this note,” Mike draws a small piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Chris.

 

Chris’s forehead creases as he reads, his heart knocking within his chest.

 

“This is a joke,” Chris looks up at Mike, who is watching Chris’s reaction closely.

 

“It is not,” Mike states plainly.

 

“Do you know him? Have you ever met him before you’ve seen him at the crime scene?”

 

“Never,” Chris nearly sputters, shaking his head. Never.

 

Mike’s eyebrows knit closely together, folding the small note back into his pocket.

 

“This man, this - _ Tom _ , is quite an important, knowledgeable guy. He’s annoying as hell, but he knows a lot Chris,” Mike pauses, looking Chris meaningfully.

 

“I could ignore him and squeeze him hard until he talks, but I want to keep him happy and his tongue loose, you know? If he starts singing, if he gives up names and facts - then he might get us the golden cup,” Mike tells him, now with a glint of fervor in his eyes.

 

He reaches to touch Chris’s shoulder again. 

 

His touch is oddly warm through Chris’s shirt. 

 

Mike had never touched him prior to the shooting.

 

“I need your help with this.”

  
  


\-------

  
  


That day, Chris remains seated in his living room, staring at the wall above the playing television for long past his usual bedtime.

 

For the life of him, he doesn't understand anything anymore.

 

And his back, his back is hurting even more than the usual.

  
  


\------------ 

  
  


Chris is leaning his shoulder on the wall, arms folded across his chest, foot continuously tapping the pavement.

 

Had he been smoking, this would have been a perfect timing for a cigarette.  

 

Soon, Mike peeks his head behind the hard, wooden door.

 

“Come on,” he motions with his head. 

 

Chris purses his lips, and follows.

 

“This,” Mike hands him a few pages of printed documents, “is the list of questions I want you to ask him, and this,” he picks a sleek, black pen from his pocket, “is a tape recorder. For everything he tells you.” 

 

“Ok,” Chris nods, staring at the small device.

 

“I’ll be right here,” Mike gestures a chair positioned right next to an adjacent room’s door.

 

“Good luck, buddy,” he squeezes Chris’s shoulder yet again, and lets him into the room.

  
  


\--------

  
  


Since this morning, when they told Tom that today he shall be taken to be questioned, he felt what was coming, giddy from that moment onwards.

 

He picked the best attire he could find among the poor selection available to him, carefully shaved his stubble away, and brushed his teeth once, twice, thrice, after every bloody crumb he’d eaten - keeping his mouth absolutely minty fresh.

 

He’d kept his smile tamed as best as he could, but could not prevent his belly from tingling all day long.

  
  


\-----------

  
  


When Chris opens the door, Tom is sitting in front of a simple table in the middle of the room. 

 

The sight of him makes Chris pause, freezing on the spot for the briefest of moments. He is thrown back in time, back to the night of the shooting when Tom shouted his name out loud and shook his shoulder almost violently as he fought for Chris to stay awake.

 

Tom looks at him, a small smile on his lips.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hello.”

 

Chris enters the room, walking as stably as he can to his appointed seat. It angers him that Tom sees him like this, some might go as far as call it limping, but Chris shakes the notion away and sits down.

 

He takes his seat, and begins arranging his documents on the table, feeling bashful under Tom’s gaze.

 

“It’s really good to see you.”

 

Chris flicks his eyes across the table. 

 

Tom is looking at him, his eyes gleaming with interest.

 

“Thanks,” Chris mutters, having nothing else to say and feeling like an idiot for it. 

 

“You said you’d answer a few questions if I came here.”

 

Tom observes him intently. 

 

“Yes I did.”

 

Chris nods and places the taping machine on the table. He clicks the Record button.

 

“This is a tape. It will record our conversation,” he says, to which Tom nods his consent.

 

Chris clears his throat, and finds the first page of pending questions.

 

“Ravitz and Shane - these are the people who organized the robbery the night you were arrested. Can you confirm? Can you tell me about them?”

 

“That is true. Shane was the head organizer of that operation. Ravitz was, and still is I suppose -  Shane’s right hand, his field chief, so to speak. He assembles the people, the soldiers - who will carry out said operation, carries the negotiations of payments, and spreads the word of the final timing of the deed.”

 

Chris meets Tom’s eyes. Now that their conversation has taken a professional turn - his reverence has grown secondary.

 

“And you, you cracked the safe.”

 

Tom answers with a slow nod that piques Chris’s curiosity.

 

It occurs to him that this is the first time that he witnesses a suspect testifying about a crime scene and the organization that ran it based on a first-hand experience.  

 

“Can you tell me a more about your part in your organization?”

Tom remains quiet, lowering his eyes to the table. For a moment, Chris fears he will refuse to answer.

 

“You could say that I am some sort of an intelligence agent. I am the one who locates a suitable bank to raid in terms of size, manpower, and secured facilities- as in, where they keep the money. When Shane and Ravitz pick out one of my targets - I pay the right people to hand me the names and models of the equipment operated in the bank’s guarded chambers, I investigate, and when the time comes, -” Tom cocks his head slightly - “I break into them.” 

 

Chris stares at him, his attention stolen by Tom’s disclosings.

 

He is fascinated.

 

They spend the next hour discussing more questions, with Tom answering them shortly, strictly to the point. 

 

Tom’s voice is flat throughout their entire conversation, lacking of any emotion.

 

Despite that, Chris’s mind is captured, reeling as it tries to tie and wrap the information revealed by Tom.

 

Afterwards, he thanks Tom for his cooperation, while within, his bafflement re-emerges.

 

What now, he wonders while rearranging the papers back into their folder. Soon he will have to leave. Practically, their meeting is nearly over. 

 

“You’re welcome,” Tom says, his voice softer, very different than the way he spoke while answering Chris’s questions mere moments ago.

 

Chris looks up at him.

 

“I’m so glad you managed to show up,”  Tom tells him with a small, warm smile.

 

Chris’s hands are suddenly large and clumsy, failing to draw the papers into their nylon folder.

 

He is reminded of Tom speaking softly to him while he kept his wound stable.

 

He remembers Tom rubbing his arm - trying to chase away the piercing cold from Chris’s body.

 

If not for Tom’s help, Chris might have suffered much worse physical damage. He might not have lived to see the next day at all.

 

“I thought about you a lot. I heard you were hospitalized for quite a while, but- you look good now, very good.”

 

Chris lowers his eyes, his mind turning blank. His cheeks are warming despite himself.

 

“You always do,” Tom says, his tone laced with an unmistakable intention. 

 

Chris looks up in a sharp movement. He snatches the small tape from the table, fumbling with it until he finds the shutdown button. Quickly, he erases the last few seconds from the tape.

 

“What are you doing?” he hisses at Tom.

 

Tom lifts his palms in submission.

 

“I apologize, I forgot we were being recorded. I simply want to know how you are doing.”

 

“I’m fine,” Chris says it before he thinks it. He’d been asked this question for more times he would care to know by now, and with each day that passes, answering it cuts his patience shorter and turns his heart darker.

 

Tom looks at him meaningfully, obviously unsatisfied with Chris’s answer.

 

“Did they treat you nicely at the hospital? Are you back on the field?”

 

Chris’s chest tightens at the mention of the hospital.

 

“No.” 

 

Tom saw the sodding wound with his own eyes, and just witnessed the way Chris carries himself. Isn’t the situation obvious?

 

Tom cocks his head in question.

 

“No-. No what?”

 

Chris exhales as calmly as possible. He should just leave.

 

He should have refused to come here in the first place.

 

“No, as in it will never be the same,” he says in a low voice.

 

Tom’s mouth opens slightly, his eyes traveling from Chris’s face to his chest, then back, inspecting.

 

“Is that what the doctor said to you?” he seems to think of something, then- 

 

“Did you try to get a second opinion from another-”

 

“Enough,” Chris cuts in, pushing his chair back and standing up, “thank you for your cooperation.”

 

“Wait, Chris, hold on,” Tom says earnestly, leaning over in his chair, making Chris pause.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he raises his palm in compliance again. 

 

“I was pushing it too hard. I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave.”

 

“What are you trying to do?” Chris looks at him pointedly. 

 

“Please sit down,” Tom pleads, “I won’t pry anymore. Please.”

 

“I won’t stand for you in court, do you realize that? You are guilty.”

 

“I know, I know,” Tom nods, “I highly respect that, though that’s not what I want.”

 

Chris stands put, his jaws set all too tightly. 

 

What the hell is Tom trying to get by doing all of this?

 

“Please, sit down. I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know,” Tom tries again.

 

Chris looks at him, unable to step through the door and leave indifferently. He wants to understand.

 

Composing himself, he moves to take his seat.

 

“I would like to know what is it that you want.”

 

Tom stares at him for a moment, the smallest of smiles slowing playing on his lips.

 

“What I want?” 

 

“Should I just say it then?”

 

Tom licks his lips, his chest rising in a deep breath.

 

Chris stills in his chair. 

 

“I want to ask you to go out with me,” he says with a shrug and a sheepish smile, two bright dashes of red tinting his cheeks.

 

A thrill runs up Chris’s spine.

 

It can’t be. He feels like an idiot. 

 

Tom is after something else. Not this.

 

“I would have done it already, though it’s rather pointless right now as I am in closed quarters.”

 

He looks entirely serious. And even if he’s not, he’s making a damn fine show of it.

 

Chris stares at him, left without a worthy response.

 

“You’ve lost your mind,” he tells him, his voice quiet.

 

Tom raises a challenging eyebrow.

 

“Do you honestly think that is the case?”

 

“You are an attractive, good man. Why wouldn’t I want to spend time with you, preferably alone.”

 

Chris shifts under the unusual flattery. Women do not- talk like that. Not to him, and not in general.

 

“Because- I’m a cop,” he explains weakly, once again feeling inept facing Tom.

 

“Well, yes. Someone out there would probably find this hilarious, and I certainly did not plan this, but fortunately or not, it does not change anything. It is what it is.”

 

Chris inhales deeply, licking his lips uneasily.

 

Tom denies having and unjust motives. 

 

He crosses his arms over his chest, as if mentally defending himself from Tom and what he cannot handle.

 

He considers the situation once, then again, and looks at the messy bundle of the questions pages resting on the table.

 

His mind replays some of the information Tom disclosed minutes ago.

 

“I read your file,” Chris says pensively, pushing what Tom just said aside for now, “You are smart, capable.”

 

“Besides this,” he indicates the documents, “your past is clean. You’ve never put anyone down, you've hurt no one and no one’s property.”

 

“You don’t like what you are doing, or the people you’re doing it with.”

 

“I could say the same about you,” Tom looks at him, unfazed.

 

Chris clicks his tongue. 

 

His uncle told him once that if someone’s comment annoys him, that comment must hold some sort of truth to it.

 

“Why stick to crime?” he moves on, “How did you slip into this- bad nonsense?”

 

Tom is not a bad man. He might be cunning, or even a liar, but a bad man - he’s not.

 

Tom contemplates Chris’s question for a while.

 

“I will answer that,” he says eventually, calculative, “if you answer a question of mine as well.”

 

Chris narrows his eyes suspiciously.

 

“Just hear me out,” Tom raises his hand. “If you’re not happy with my question, we’ll forget all about it.”

 

It happens so, that Chris wants to know.

 

“Ok,” he accepts with caution, “go on.”

 

Tom eyes him with interest.

 

“Are you married?”

 

The question takes him off balance, yet Chris conceals it with a thin smile. 

 

“No.” 

 

“But I used to be.” 

 

“Oh,” Tom nods, curiosity easily noticeable on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but Chris stops him before he fishes for more information.

 

“You said one question,” he reminds him, causing Tom to smirk.

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Tom breathes deeply, a more serious expression coming over his face.

 

“So, you want to know why.”

 

“Well. To begin with, you’re right,” Tom says, glancing up at Chris. 

 

“I really do hate what I’m doing. I hate stealing things from other people, and I hate what stealing says about me even more.”

 

“I suppose, in a way, that my father started all of this. He used to be, like I am,  - good at intelligence, had some strong sense of mechanics, had some sharp hands - call it whatever you like. Also, my father had the wrong, stupid attraction to the wrong, stupid people, whom, when discovered my father’s questionable skills - allured him closer to them and their doings.”

 

“These days, my dear father is ill. He is no longer able to  _ perform,”  _ Tom smiles wryly, “much less able to pay back his debts to those not so wonderful people he’d befriended.”

 

Tom lets out a tired exhale.

 

“He’d taken loans from dangerous people, he’d bought very expensive things- only to show others that he can, and that was his undoing. That’s how he fell.” 

 

“When he went out of business, someone had to pay off his bills. That someone was me - his loyal, capable son.”  

 

“They blackmailed you?” Chris asks him in a low voice. 

 

Tom purses his lips thoughtfully.

 

“Those people are smarter than that. They want their runners happy, or rather - overdosed on what is mistaken for happiness. But basically - yes. At the end of the day, as sweetly coated as their words were, I was in no place to say no.”

 

“I joined their lines and the truth is that I did very well. I outdid my father fairly quickly, turning out to be a brilliant buy. I was efficient and calculated, I was subtle yet successful with my actions - I made the wiseguys happy.”

 

Tom looks up from the table, catching Chris staring at him with curiosity.

 

“To be fair, I finished paying my father’s debts not too long ago.” Tom pauses then, licking his lips hesitantly.

 

“However, once those people had learned how beneficial I was to them, it became difficult for me  to find my way out.”

 

“I was their best player,” he sighs, forehead creasing, ”their successful little fox, the king of rest of their sheep-like soldiers.” 

 

Tom clears his throat then, and leans back in his chair with a sigh.

 

“And that’s it. That’s all there is. That is my long answer to your short question.”

 

Tom wipes his palm over his face, then reaches for his cup, taking a few sips of cold water.

 

Chris remains quiet, letting the moments pass in silence. Once again, his mind is overwhelmed with information.

 

“I felt lost all the bloody time,” Tom says suddenly, voice small.

 

“I barely knew who I was or what I wanted anymore. That - money. That goddamn money and sense of unfulfilled potential- what I can actually do with my life and then don’t, drove me crazy.”

 

Tom empties his glass of water, then taps on it, playing with it absently.  

 

“Meeting you reminded me that life could be nice sometimes. That I could be nice sometimes.”

 

Chris’s fingers find his knee beneath the table and grip it.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

“I mean every word I say.” Tom tells him, looking right into Chris’s eyes.

 

He lets his eyes roam over Chris’s torso. His fingers tap the table decisively.

 

“And the man who did this to you,” he points at Chris’s abdomen, “he shall learn his lesson.”

 

Chris blinks, thrown by the change of topic. The comment serves like a slap to his face.

 

“What?”

 

“His deed will not go unnoticed,” Tom states, his tone suggesting that no questions are to be asked about this.

 

Chris stares at him, suddenly angered. Disappointed.

 

“You are a dirty mob after all.” 

 

Tom shakes his head. He’s unsettled as well, Chris can feel it.

 

“I’m not going to throw him in a ditch - if that’s what you are subtly trying to ask me.”

 

“You two will share a quiet little pep talk then,” Chris says, making Tom smirk.

 

“Not quite. What I mean is that the crime kingdom is an ecosystem of a brutal economy. One who wishes to survive in it, needs to have a job. If one, say, Zig,” Tom adds sardonically, ”does not find a job - one desiccates, or goes to jail.” 

 

Chris is quiet. There’s a stinging itch slithering through his lower back, as if the pain within him can smell the unwelcome turn of their conversation.

 

“You don’t need to settle my scores for me Tom.”

 

“And I don’t need no protector.”

 

Tom is looking pointedly at Chris from his seat, his shoulders squared.

 

“You can barely walk straight because of him,” he says, eyes hard, “you lost your job.”

 

Chris’s face gush with heat. One more slap, and another kick to his stomach.

 

The words spasm in his head.

 

“I didn’t lost my job,” he says, voice dangerously quiet.

 

_ And I can walk just fine, _ he wants to say, straight into Tom’s face, but Chris’s lips are sealed. 

 

It hurts more than he could ever say.

 

And that’s it. He can’t contain any more of this.

 

With a slight shiver to his hands, Chris begins gathering his documents. 

 

“I think we’re done in here, thank you for your cooperation,” he says for the third time, eyes set at the table.

 

Tom watches Chris’s movements with growing alarm.

 

“Chris, what- wait a moment, damn it, I- I’m sorry-”

 

“Don’t be, everything is fine.” 

 

Tom knows nothing. The little bastard. He knows shit about painkillers, indifferent doctors and back aches the pierce you when you so much as reach for a cup of water at the middle of the night.

 

Chris stands up from his chair, and Tom follows him at once, rising to his feet.

 

“Chris, I apologize,-”

 

“You better sit back down. If someone sees you they might send the staff to restrain you.”

 

“I’ll manage,” Tom tells him with startling audacity, and remains standing.

 

“Please don’t leave like this. Let’s settle this. I meant nothing wrong.”

 

“What did you mean then,” Chris asks him, the words falling out of his mouth.

 

“You think that punishing the guy who shot me will make me feel better? Will make me walk normally again? Fix my stupid legs?”

 

Tom stares at him, his eyes large with dismay.

 

They say nothing to each other for moments, with Tom’s throat visibly working.

 

“I’m so sorry, so sorry this ever happened to you,” he nearly whispers, and Chris’s throat thickens. He wants no pity from nobody.

 

“I honestly don’t know why you wanted me to come in here. Talking to me won’t help you.”

 

“I should go.” 

 

Chris pushes his chair back, and turns around to leave.

 

But In the heat of the moment, in the swirl of his emotions, Chris bumps his left hip into the edge of the table.

 

Like a thin snake of fire, pain crawls and bursts through his back.

 

Chris’s eyes shut tightly, his hand shooting to grasp the aggravated area. He hisses under the burning ache, biting his lip to swallow his whimpers.

 

“Chris-,” Tom gasps, eyes open wide.

 

“Don’t you say a fucking word,” Chris silences him. The documents are crushed in his grip, and Chris breathes as deeply as he can, willing the worst waves of pain to decrease.

 

He feels his neck heat, his face reddening in embarrassment. He’s ashamed.

 

Tom falls silent, his shoulders slumping. He watches Chris’ palm rubbing circles through his shirt for a long, somber moment, and then, without saying a word, returns to his chair.

 

Chris massages his middle, and when the harshest of the burns subsides, he straightens and walks as steadily as he can manage to the door. He has nothing to say anymore.

 

He is about to open the door when Tom speaks again.

 

“There are two reasons for which I wanted you to come here,” he says, making Chris pause.

 

Against his better judgement, Chris turns his head to look at Tom.

 

Tom’s hands are entwined together on the table, his face unreadable.

 

“The first, is that I wanted to know how you were doing after the shooting. I saw you getting shot, I saw you bleeding, - I had to see you in person,” he says in earnest. 

 

“Doing what I did with the investigators was the only way I could make it happen.”

 

“The second reason is, that,” Tom says, steepling his fingers through each other. 

 

“I wanted to ask you a question.” 

 

Tom pauses, lifting his eyes to meet Chris’s. His expression remains unchanged, betraying nothing.

 

“My question is - Do you swing both ways?”

 

Chris tightens his grip on the documents, his palm suddenly sweaty. For a moment it feels as if the floor has crumbled beneath his feet.

 

“What are you talking about,” he mutters the first answer he can pull out of his sleeve.

 

“You do know what I mean.”

 

“Of course I do,” Chris nearly sputters. He feels naked under the question.

 

Tom nods slowly.

 

“Do you swing both ways then?” he asks, his voice holding that soft tone again.

 

“None of your damned business,” Chris fumbles, sensing utterly stupid.

 

Tom lowers his gaze, looking solemn.

 

“That’s a real shame,” he says.

 

A moment of silence stretches, and Chris shakes himself, reminding himself to leave.

 

“What if I leave it all behind,” Tom says quietly, brows knitted close. “What if I never turn to crime again and change my ways,-”

 

“Might it be my business then?” he lifts his eyes to Chris’s.

 

Chris can’t remember ever being spoken to like this in his life.

 

“Christ, Tom,” he swallows thickly, “We can’t talk like this to each other.” 

 

He’s a cop. Tom is on the other side of the river. And they are both- 

 

They can’t. They couldn’t possibly. 

 

“We can’t have this conversation, It will do us no good.”

 

Chris wipes his palm over his dry lips, and inhales deeply.

 

A throb of pressure slushes through the back of his head.

 

He decides he can handle this encounter no longer.

 

Before Tom can make any further response, he walks to the room’s door and opens it.

 

“Take care of yourself Tom, don’t do anything stupid,” he murmurs, and slips out of the room. 

 

Chris makes a few steps down the hall, but soon leans the nearest wall, too dizzy to continue. His back is killing him.

 

“What happened,” Mike nears him, but Chris gestures him with his hand not to come any closer.

 

“I’m fine,” he breathes.

 

He feels dehydrated, his throat is parched.

 

“I’m fine.”

  
  
  
  


\---------------

  
  
  


Tom keeps staring at the door long moments after Chris left.

 

His skin is still prickling when the door suddenly crudely barges open.

 

Mike enters the room and flats his palms on the table, looking down at Tom.

 

“What did you say to him?”

 

Tom tilts his chin up and meets Mike’s towering gaze.

 

“The truth,” Tom tells him.

 

Chris is like a sharp hound among his peers, those little pets who bark for nothing.

  
  
  


\--------------

  
  
  


He stares at the grey, depressing ceiling of his cell that night until he can keep his eyes open no more.

 

The image of Chris hissing with pain replays in his head over, and over.

 

He shall remember it for long, along with the memories of Chris’s body dropping to the floor after being shot.

 

Chris is different, Tom realizes though he’d known it before. A different creature than Tom.

 

Tom had spent long enough time with cons that he speaks like one of them, thinks like one of them. And Chris is… Different. 

 

He should have been smarter, should have considered his words better. 

 

Chris turns out to be a fierce, yet delicate target. Tom should have approached him accordingly.

 

“What an idiot,” he wipes his palms over his face with a sigh.

 

_ What if I leave crime behind. _

 

He thinks and re-thinks to the point of exhaustion, and when the first rays of sun pierce through the window, Tom ends up considering a course of action he’s been considering since the day he’d joined crime.

 

Whether it will make get Chris closer to him, he’s not sure. There’s absolutely no guarantee for anything. But still… It feels like the right thing to do, as it always has.

 

The smooth little fox inside Tom wishes that Chris would have come to him more easily, more willingly, but Tom pushes the notion away.

 

Getting closer to Chris is probably the first prospect in a long time that Tom will have to earn by hard, honest work. Legal work. Getting his hands dirty, and not with the mud of money.

 

The thought storms Tom’s mind, but his eyes are already dropping. He shall have a single hour of rest before six am wake up call, at most.

 

He falls asleep wondering how their encounter might have turned out if Tom Had spoken in a different manner, a manner more gentle, more considerate.

 

A manner of a man who’d never committed a crime in his life.

  
  
  
  


A manner of a man who could somehow help Chris with his wound.

  
  
  


\---------

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, below is the new chapter. 
> 
> Warnings - hmm, things are turning just a little bit tenser, but I think we're cool. Nothing too bad in my opinion.
> 
> We are almost halfway through the story, though the chapter count just grew into nine :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving comments. You are warming my little heart.

On the following day to his meeting with Chris in the investigations room, Tom waits in the queue for the public pay phone for more than an hour. 

 

When it’s finally his turn, Tom steps into the small, ragged booth, pursing his lips with unease. He picks up the phone handle with a paper tissue, uncomfortable with the thought of the numerous prisoners who hold it every single day, barehanded, positioning it almost in direct contact with their mouths.

 

Luckily, his sister picks up his call almost immediately.

 

“Tommy, brother.”

 

“Sarah darling,” Tom says with a small smile. He loves his sisters. They’ve always been there for him, despite everything their family has been through.

 

“I need your help,” Tom gets down to business right away. Talking about how much everybody is worried about him only serves to add to his pensiveness.

 

“Do you remember Dr. Colleen McCullough?”

  
  


\-----------

  
  
  


Chris enters through the office’s door with a quiet good morning. He finds his desk and bites back a strangled huff, gripping the edge of the table for balance as he carefully settles down into his chair.

 

He wipes his damp forehead, then switches his computer on and waits for it to load,  watching the lively sun rays picking from the window.

 

When the view of the street reminds him of the late night jogs he used to have through the blocks, his body heated and clammy with hard-earned sweat, he averts his gaze back to the grey screen.

 

The screen peeps with a welcome message, and Chris looks at it idly, head slightly bowed. 

 

He opens the first file assigned to him, and begins to read.

 

For the longest time he sits nearly motionless in his chair, saying absolutely nothing at all.

  
  


\------------

  
  
  


Some time later, while he’s reviewing the fourth casefile, the phone on his desk rings.

 

“Yeah, good morning,” he says, pinching the bridge of his eyes.

 

“Good- good morning. Chris?”

 

Chris uncovers his face, eyebrows furrowing. He glances at the case file documents, then at the small cup of pens that appeared on his desk the day he returned to the office after being released from the hospital.

 

“Who is this?”

 

The man on the other side of the line hesitates, but only for a moment.

 

“It’s- Tom. Tom Hiddleston.”

 

A hot shiver crawls down Chris’s spine, down to where his wound stretches. 

 

“How did you get this number.”

 

“I asked the right people for a small favor. But - Chris, please. I do not intend to overuse this number- or abuse your privacy. I’m only asking for a short opportunity to speak to you, that is all.”

 

Chris straightens in his seat. He looks around him, inspecting his surroundings, irrationally fearing that someone might be listening to their conversation.

 

“Haven’t we bothered each other enough?”

 

“You don’t bother me, and you never did,” Tom sighs quietly, “Please, just a few moments of your time.”

 

Chris clears his throat with unease.

 

The case file he was just reading is forgotten. The heavy, semi-slumber he’d been sinking into is gone from his system.

 

“What do you what.” 

 

“I’ll speak right to the point. Doctor Colleen McCullough is an old friend of my father’s. They have known each other for years. McCullough is an excellent doctor, specializing in severe wounds to the body and its rehabilitation.”

 

Chris tightens his grip on the phone handle.

 

“She has a sharp tongue and some unconventional perceptions about medicine, but she sees people as people, not as patients.”

 

Chris gazes at the computer’s screen, any traces of emotion gone from his face.

 

“Go and see her Chris. She’s costly, but I’ll arrange for you to meet her free of charge.”

 

“I don't need no charity,” Chris says at once, with spite. 

 

“I can pay for myself.”

 

He could just tell Tom off. Put down the phone handle, end the conversation, and cease this once and for all.

 

“Please Chris, please. Forget the money. Write down her phone number, and go to her. I beg of you.”

 

Chris clicks his tongue, shaking his head incredulously.

 

“There’s no need to beg,-” 

 

“Then take her number. Please.”

 

Chris exhales soundly, pinching his eyes.

 

“You’re out of your mind,” Chris mutters, reaching for a pen and a piece of paper.

 

When he would ask himself later why he allowed this conversation to continue, why he let Tom meddle in this private, sensitive business, Chris would not know the answer his own question.

 

He writes down the number Tom spells for him, and clumsily folds the messy note into his pocket.

 

“Call her today, don’t waste any more time.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Chris grumbles. His face is warm, being mothered by Tom like this.

 

“Ok, good. I’m glad.”

 

Tom hesitates for a moment, his breaths audible over the line. 

“I would have asked you how you’ve been doing, but- I’m not sure I’m allowed to.”

 

Chris stares at the computer screen, black text over white appearing like a mash-up of words. A bleak sigh escapes his lips before he can swallow it down.

 

“Paperwork is what I’ve been doing. That’s all I’m good for these days,” he says and immediately regrets it.

 

What is he doing?

 

“You know it’s not true Chris.”

 

The gentleness in Tom’s voice, he’s heard it before, makes him pause. 

 

“You are an excellent lawman, both in-office and out on the field,” Tom says, and Chris’s chest rises with a heavy breath. 

 

Tom’s words quietly comfort him. Chris’s body slackens a little, and he shifts to sit more comfortably in his chair.

 

“Go to see her, give her a chance. She might help you.”

 

“Ok, ok,” Chris murmurs. He’s tempted to try and understand how exactly did Tom manage to get his hands on his personal desk number, but refrains from asking. The less he knows, the less he’ll be able to worsen the penalty Tom’s might suffer for calling him.

 

“And you, I hope you are doing alright,” he says with caution. 

 

They are not friends, but Chris has come to appreciate Tom’s vigor. The man is not audacious just so he could puff up his chest and run home to tell his friends all about it. Tom simply works for his intentions to be fulfilled.   

 

“I’m doing fine,” Tom says, but doesn’t elaborate, and Chris decides not to probe further. There’s probably a reason for which Tom wouldn’t explain.

 

“I want to help you.” 

 

Chris looks down at the table. He feels the sting of his wound and the never comfortable weight of his legs. 

 

He can’t help him. He doubts anyone can.

 

“You shouldn't worry about me. Life is moving on, I’m doing fine,” he says, voice flat.

 

For a moment, Tom doesn’t respond.

 

“I know what I saw when you questioned me,” He says, not unkindly.

 

Chris sighs uneasily through his nose.

 

“I’m usually calmer than that,” is all he can say.

 

“You were fine. Just fine. I was the one who behaved like an idiot. I’m sorry about that.”

 

Chris gently taps one of the pens on his papers, caught in the somehow peaceful silence that follows.

 

He allows a few moments to pass with no comment, when suddenly the calm is broken by the door opening, letting in a few of Chris’s colleagues. One of them is Phil.

 

Chris clears his throat and pulls himself back to the present. He brings the phone handle closer to his mouth.

 

“Tom, I’m not alone in here. I’m afraid we’ll have to- end this conversation.”

 

“You brilliant friends are back, huh,” Tom breathes. “I understand.”

 

“Call imprisonment wing D after your'e back from the doc and just ask for me, tell me how it went,” he says with a wink in his voice.

 

Chris smiles ever so slightly. The man is a madman.

 

“I’ll- see what I can do."

 

“Goodbye Tom.”

 

“Take care Chris. Goodbye.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Their conversation ends with a quiet click.

 

He should report this call to his seniors, should inform them that Tom has laid his hands on this number, and that other staff members have aided him in doing so.

 

The thought travels back and forth in his head for long moments after their conversation is over.

 

But Chris does no such thing.

  
  


\-------------------

  
  


Tom places the phone handle back with a sigh.

 

He steps aside from phone booth, leaning his back on the wall with his hands crossed behind his back and drops his head backwards.

 

The inmate who’s next in the queue for the phone takes his place in the booth.

 

“What’s wrong Hiddleston, momma canceled her visit?”

 

Tom chuckles dryly, staring at the ceiling.

 

“Brandon. How do you make someone like you when he stubbornly resists?”

 

“Oh boy. You gotta wait for the right moment to sing Elvis,” he says, earning another smirk from Tom.

 

“What does that even mean.”

 

“It means that you gotta feel it deep down in your guts. You gotta be careful, listen to your instinct and all that sensitive trash inside you. Tell her she’s pretty, get the mood going, you know?” he says, and Tom doesn’t bother to correct him.

 

“And then what?” Tom asks, feeling playful. 

 

“You’ll know it Hiddleston, you’ll know it. You wait for the right moment-” Brandon looks at him, terribly excited by his own jab.

 

“And you pounce.”

  
  
  


\-------------

  
  
  


Tom returns to his cell, his mind deep in thought, only to leave it again an hour later when he is told a visitor is waiting to see him.

 

He is lead into a large room, where more inmates are meeting with their visitors, each inmate seated at a separate table with his guests.

 

Tom nears his appointed table, cautious, as his family members have already come for him.

 

A fleeting thought suggests Chris, but Tom dismisses it. Brandon said he has to feel it for the right moment, and it’s not it, not yet.

 

When he finally sees the face of his visitor, Tom’s stomach twists.

 

Barely a month has passed since he’d been taken into arrest, yet a vast abyss has already broken apart between Tom and his past. He feels queasy when he is forced to face it.

 

“Tommy, Tommy,” Ravitz reaches to shake his hand and Tom reluctantly takes it. He’ll act cool and calm. Everything is fine. This is not Ravitz’s play yard.

 

“What happened there Tommy?” Ravitz asks him after they exchange a few forced pleasantries.

 

“Is it true, what Zig tells me, that you protected a blue? The same one who got between our legs before?”

 

Tom clicks his tongue, shaking his head in annoyance. The name alone of that goof sets him on an edge.

 

“That bloody idiot shot a police officer for nothing, do you realize that? For nothing. I’m sick of this Ravitz, I’m sick and tired.”

 

Ravitz looks at him doubtfully, unfazed.

 

“Zig told me that cop was aiming a gun at you.” 

 

“The situation was under control,” Tom grits between his teeth, pressing his index finger to the table, “and I would have finalized it in a relative truce. If not for his stupidity, things would have ended differently.”

 

“How, exactly?” Ravitz looks at him skeptically.

 

“I don’t need to give you any explanations Ravitz. I was the boss,” Tom points at himself, “I would have ended here anyway, perhaps, but if not for Zig, not a drop of blood would have been spilled.”

 

Ravitz taps his fingers over the table, his eyes narrowed in thought.

 

He clears his throat then, and throws a perilous smile at Tom.

 

“I can get you out of here Tommy,” he says suddenly.

 

“Let’s put everything behind us. I don’t care for that blue more than I care for my stinking old socks.”

 

Tom stares at him, his jaws set tight. 

 

“I have a new job for you. A new gig. Good money. Spare some of if to your old man,” Ravitz says with a wink.

 

For a moment, Tom says nothing. His belly is warm, led like dense.

 

That horrible sensation returns to him, of spending his days with people who think very little of him while he is repeatedly thinking even worse about them in return. How lonely he’d been. How constantly bitter he’d felt.

 

“You’re wasting your time, Raz. Mine as well. I’m not interested.”

 

Ravitz raises a doubtful eyebrow at Tom. He appears calm, but Tom guesses otherwise.

 

“Not interested?”

 

“Yes. I’m out of the business. I paid my father’s bills, show’s over.”

 

Ravitz leans back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. He’s looking at Tom as if he’s a boy, a child who lacks any idea of what he’s doing.

 

“What do you want Tom, you want more money? Is that what this is about? I can get you money.”

 

“I don’t want your money Raz,” Tom tells him slowly. 

 

“It is as simple as it sounds. I don’t want to run any more gigs. It’s over.”

 

Ravitz stares at him wordlessly for long, tense moments. He then leans forward over the table.

 

“What- is over exactly Tom? Your friendship with us? We go way back, I think. Does it mean nothing to you? What’s the change of wind all of a sudden?”

 

Tom licks his lips, lowering his gaze. This encounter must remain uneventful. 

 

“Tom, Tommy, look at me. Look at me.”

 

Ravitz’s eyes are shimmering with dark intent.

 

“You should do what you’re good at boy,” he says, and Tom is appalled by the sight of Ravitz’s face up close.

 

“Take my offer.”

 

Beneath the table, Tom clenches his fists. The back of his head is hot with anger.

 

He’s more than a stinking little thief.

 

“Answer is no. Take a good care Raz. I’m out.”

 

Tom pushes up from his chair, and raises his hand in a gesture to the guards, signaling to them that the visit is over.

 

“What’s this Tom? You think you’re better without us? Is that how you treat your friends? You think you can actually be someone without our gigs?”

 

Tom wills himself to relax, restless as he awaits the guard to just take him away, back to his cell.

 

“You think that blue gives a damn about you? What, because you helped him? The man is laughing with his blue friends about you, telling them how little Tom thinks you two are friends.” 

 

Tom closes his eyes and bites his lower lip, allowing the guard to manhandle him towards the hall’s exit.

 

“You’re a fucking joke to him Tom, get it. Cheap gossip to talk about when there’s nothing else to say. A shitty little crook.” 

 

Tom swallows thickly, moaning deep in his throat.

 

“Fuck you, Ravitz,” he grits, “fuck you,” whimpering when the guard grabs his arm tightly.

 

“Keep your mouth clean Hiddleston.”

 

“My offer still stands!” Ravitz calls after him, “think about it overnight and call me tomorrow, let me know what you think.”

 

“Don’t come back here,” Tom mutters between his teeth, not even looking back at the man.

 

“Don’t come back here.”

 

He gazes at the floor as the officer leads him back to his cell, his mouth is tightly shut, and his ears ringing.

  
  


\----------------

  
  
  


Gripping his cup of water, Tom spends his dinner staring cooly at the food hall walls.

 

_ You should do what you’re good at boy. _

 

_ The man is laughing with his blue friends about you. _

 

He is nauseated to his bones. Not one food crumb reaches Tom’s mouth during dinner. 

 

Tom walks back to his cell, palms buried deep in his pockets, his head slightly bowed.

  
  


\-------------------

  
  


Through the small window in his cell, Tom closely watches the darkened sky, his head pounding with thoughts.

 

With a heavy heart, he makes his final decision that night.

 

His sleep is restless, his body is clammy with sweat when he wakes up, legs tangled in the sheets.

 

He feels somewhat better though when he wakes up, and even manages to nibble down some food at breakfast. 

 

By lunchtime, his heart already weighs a little lighter in his chest.

  
  
  


\----------------------

  
  
  


The following day to his conversation with Tom, Chris calls doctor McCullough’s clinic.

 

They have been waiting for his call, they tell him, which makes Chris pause with surprise. He mumbles the rest of his request for a meeting. 

 

They set him a meeting for the following day.

  
  
  


\--------------

  
  
  
  


“Chris Hemsworth?”

 

Chris looks up from the floor.

 

“Over here.”

 

“Doctor McCullough will see you now,” the secretary tells him.

 

Chris is ushered into the room and takes his seat behind the doctor’s table.

 

The doctor is revealed as a lady sporting a short, dark haircut, a pair of glasses resting on her nose. She appears to be thin, and Chris estimates her to be a relatively short woman. Petite, even.

 

She’s nothing like how he’d imagined she would be at all.

 

After handing her his documents, Chris folds his hands back into his lap. 

“I hear you are familiar the Hiddleston's then,” the doctor says casually, reading into Chris’s file.

 

“Um, yes,” Chris steeples his fingers.

 

“Unique family. Clever, industrious people,” she comments, and Chris politely agrees with her, internally wondering just how much she knows about Tom’s illegal conduct. 

 

“You’re friends with the sisters then? Or the boy- what was his name?”

 

“Tom, yes.” Chris nods, clearing his throat. Sisters. Tom has sisters.

 

“Ah yes. Thomas. A nice, handsome lad.”

 

_ Handsome. _

 

Chris nods stiffly at her.

 

“He’s a good chap.” 

 

The doctor contemplates Chris’s file for long moments, reading one page then re-reading another. Eventually, she lays down his papers, folds the documents back and pushes them over the table to Chris. 

 

Chris shifts in his seat, readying himself. 

 

“Are you in pains Chris?” the doctor folds her hands over the table.

 

“At times I am, though the nights are more difficult than the days. My back aches, my legs are unstable, and I’m just… just tired. Always tired.”

 

The doctor hums in consent. 

 

“Yes, and you’re having difficulty walking steadily, I saw.”

 

“Yes,” Chris purses his lips, “that is correct.”

 

“Well,” the doctor takes one last look at his file.

 

“You are lucky the bullet did not penetrate any internal organs.”

 

Chris looks at her cooly.

 

He’d heard that one before. Multiple times.

 

“So they say,” he answers, voice flat.

 

“Indeed. Now, Mister Hemsworth, how may I help you.”

 

Chris’s brows furrow doubtfully. The question seems obvious to him.

 

“Well,” he says, ”What do you think about my wound? About my- condition?”

 

The doctor hardly pauses before she answers.

 

“Your wound is quite severe, yet stable. Like I said, you’re lucky. And those side effects you are experiencing - various aches and weaknesses, general fatigue - these are to be expected. They might last months, years, or they might never disappear.”

 

Chris stares at her wordlessly, yet again forced to take in these harsh assertion about his own body and future coming from the mouth of a perfect stranger. 

 

She’s no different than the other doctors, Chris thinks with his teeth gritted.

 

Why in god’s name did that idiot Tom send him here. He should punch him. Slap his face and forget they’ve ever crossed paths.

 

“Is that your- diagnosis?” 

 

“It might be,” the doctor raises an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Let me ask you again. What did you come here for?”

 

Chris’s forehead creases with a frown.

 

“I’m not sure I’m following you. What do you mean why did I come here? You are - a doctor.”

 

“Obviously, you’ve seen other doctors who’d given you their opinion. What do you want from me, mister Hemsworth.”

 

_ Mister Hemsworth. _

 

The doctor’s eyes are hard and demanding, uncompromisingly holding Chris’s. She’s searching, trying to get something out of him, yet Chris has no idea what it is.

 

“I-” Chris shakes his head, suddenly at a loss for words. His body tenses, sensing as if put under a harsh test.

 

“Do you want prescriptions for sedatives? Stimulants? Sleeping pills?”

 

Chris stares at her, words robbed from him again. His entire torso is visibly rising and falling, dumbstruck by the rush of troubling information. 

 

Stimulants? Sedatives? May never disappear?

 

Chris wipes his fingers over his warm forehead.

 

He wants to push his chair back and leave the room, get into his car and drive home until he finds quiet again. He wants to cry.

 

Chris averts his eyes from the doctor’s and crosses his arms over his chest, willing this meeting to be over.

 

“Will I- Will I need to use a cane?” the question is forced out of his mouth by that deep, vivid part of him that is starving for some long-sought answers.

 

“A cane?” 

 

“To walk normally, I mean.”

 

“I don’t know. That is a possibility.”

 

With a deep, shaky sigh, Chris drops his gaze to the floor. 

 

He does not know what this woman wants from him, but he cannot bear this conversation anymore. He will leave this place now.

 

“Ok. I think I understand where this is going. Thank you for time,” he says hoarsely, and starts collecting his documents into his bag, feeling horrible, as if exposed to an audience of curious, scrutinizing pairs of eyes.

 

“Mister Hemsworth,” the doctor says gravely, making Chris pause despite himself. He keeps his eyes set on the table.

 

“Various people who come to me want various things,” she says, her voice calm and quiet.

 

“Some want me to prescribe them a frightening amount of painkillers, some want me to write down a letter for their boss which grants them numerous free sick days, some want a medical opinion for the court of law.”

 

She pauses, and the tight silence draws Chris’s eyes to hers again.

 

“And some,” she emphasizes, looking sharply at him, “a few of them, want to heal.” 

 

Chris is quiet, rooted to the spot. He can’t possibly avert his eyes away.

 

“Now. You’ve come a long way here mister Hemsworth. You took a day off from your job, bothered yourself all the way up into my clinic, all with some unstable legs and aching, stinging back.”

 

“I’ve worked hard for the title of a doctor, and I assure you I can do plenty. And now, mister Hemsworth, I would like to know precisely why it is that you came here, and how may I assist you.”

 

Chris stares at her, his chest gradually un-tensing.

 

By a way he cannot explain, his resentment is slowly fading away.

 

He places back his medical file to the table, and entwines his hands at his lap.

 

He inhales deeply, speaking through a crowded throat. The doctor’s words managed to plant a dash of hope inside his heart, and being hopeful scares him to the core. 

 

The possibility of additional disappointment, of being sent away with yet more condemning diagnoses - makes Chris shiver deep inside. 

 

“I want - I want you to help me make this wound disappear. I want to go back to the field again, to walk, play with my kids- do everything I used to do before the incident.” he licks his lips. 

 

It suddenly occurs to him that he hadn’t said these supposedly obvious words to any of the other numerous doctors he’d met until now.

 

It’s… absurd.

 

“I want to go to the goddamned beach, take my clothes off and swim.”

 

The doctors nods slowly, a ghostly ghost of a smile touching the very edge of her lips.

 

“Aha. Finally a progress instead of some childish glaring.”

 

Chris instantly flushes.

 

He smiles bashfully, cautiously curious.

 

“Is that even possible?”

 

“We’ll get to it right away,” she says and leans over the table.

 

“It seems to me that you don’t believe you can do much in your situation. Tell me why is that please.”

 

The answer comes to him quickly.

 

“I-, well, a senior doctor told me that statistically, more than eighty percent of the people who suffer similar wounds are left disabled, using canes, even wheelchairs for the rest of their lives.”

 

“Well,” the doctor nods, ever so calmly, “that sounds quite somber indeed.”  

 

“Is it- is it not true?” Chris asks her, confused, but the doctor only continues to look at him pointedly. 

 

“The question that should be asked here is- are you a number? Are you part of the statistics, or are you a man capable of independent thinking?”

 

Chris’s chest is slowly oozing with sizzling warmth.

 

“So you’re saying that - it’s possible? That I can heal despite the statistics?”

 

The doctor clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

 

“I am saying - forget the stupid numbers and terrorizing headlines. They are lifeless, digits printed on papers that only serve to depress people. You are lucky, extremely lucky - that no major organs were hit. That is where you start.”

 

“You are a young man, a man at his prime. Whether you’ll walk or run is not up to me or any other doctor. Nor can I possibly know the answer to the question whether you’ll swim again. It is entirely up to you.” 

 

“The only thing I can do for you, is tell you how you may achieve what you want. The rest lies in your capable hands.”

 

Chris nods slowly, drinking in everything the doctor says. His fingers are tingling with the need to do something.

 

“Please tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

 

The doctor eyes him, nods, then turns to her computer, and spends the next few minutes typing and printing a relatively high number of papers, which she eventually hands to Chris.

 

“This is a program for your physical rehabilitation. Read it thoroughly.”

 

The pile of papers coming into Chris's hands feels heavy, precious.

 

“The toll for walking again will be collected by sweat, great physical effort, having to communicate with annoying people such as myself at times, and boring, demanding discipline.”

 

Chris holds the papers dearly, torn between the impulse to read through them and listen to the doctor as she speaks. He must concentrate.

 

This doctor is helping him. He cannot understand her behavior entirely, but the fact is that she’s helpful.

 

“Mister Hemsworth, you’ll do well by listening carefully right now. Leave the documents, hear my words and remember them to the day you walk and then after,” she says and Chris immediately lowers the papers down, murmuring an apology.

 

“Many doctors voice many opinions. In addition, very few people in this world of ours shall genuinely support or encourage your efforts to heal, simply because they do not believe themselves are capable of healing. Most of them will profoundly doubt your ability to walk and jog again, and worse - some may even try to deter you from your efforts. You’ll do best by setting those people politely but decidedly aside, while embracing those extremely few who do support you and wish you well.”

 

“Choose one way, one that suits you, and walk it. You’ll make it. Patience and persistence will serve you well.”

 

Chris simply nods at her.

 

The doctor removes her eyeglasses and pinches her eyes, clearing her throat. When she looks at Chris again, she appears as stern as ever.

 

“Anything else I can help you with, mister Hemsworth?”

 

Chris swallows, shaking his head.

 

“No, no madame, I mean- doctor, no. I- thank you,-”

 

“Thank you so much,” he says quietly, from the very depths of his heart. There is a way. There is hope.

 

He stands on his feet then, and overwhelmed by a strong need to show his gratitude, he stretches his arm to her, wanting to shake her hand. What she just did, how she made him feel - cannot be put into words.

 

As he leans towards her with his arm stretched, Chris sees that beneath the table, the doctor is seated on a wheelchair. The sight shakes his very soul, stealing his breath away.

 

“You are very welcome, Chris,” The doctor reaches a small hand and takes Chris’s offered one, looking straight into Chris’s eyes. 

 

“The best of luck to you.”

  
  


\-----------------

  
  


Speechless for the longest time, Chris drives home in silence.

  
  


\----------------

  
  


Chris takes his kids from his ex-wife’s home that evening, laughing with them as they try to teach him a new song they’ve learned in daycare this morning.

 

His mind is at ease as it hadn’t been in weeks, and their joined time passes in a pleasant, playful peace. He does not glance at the television set, nor his cellphone, not once, until the two infants sprawl sleepily over the rug in the living room.

 

He tucks them both to sleep in their beds with a kiss, and goes to find his seat on the couch back in the now quiet living room. 

 

Now freed from shackles of despair, his thoughts and spirit wander to distance and numerous possibilities.

 

He replays his meeting with doctor McCullough, and shudders. He finds the documents she assigned to him, and reads, and reads.

 

By two o'clock at night, Chris drops to the couch on his back, palm covering his face.

 

Tom, Chris thinks warily, breathing through his fingers, that Tom. He can’t believe what that man had done for him.

 

Tom had asked to know how the meeting with the doctor went, Chris suddenly remembers. He asked Chris to call him.

 

Tom also said, Chris can’t quite remember where and when now, that Chris would be too shy to do just that. The memory makes Chris snort to himself, only because it’s true.

 

And what if someone will be able to hear their conversation? Chris thinks. Some of the public phones are being tapped at times, or so the word among the troops says.

 

Chris exhales lazily, wiping his palm over his stubble. He’s so tired he cannot put any constructive thought together anymore.

 

What, should he just go and see him, his wonders sleepily.

 

No, no- he can’t. What will they talk about?

 

But he has to tell him. 

 

Somehow, he has to.

 

He spends the night on his couch, too comfortable to migrate to his bed. He sleeps almost easily, having no dreams at all.

 

Or so he thinks.

  
  


_ I have to tell him. I have to.  _

  
  


\--------- 

  
  


In a late afternoon hour, after having a minimal lunch, Tom enters the phone booth and picks up the phone handle. He reads the digits from a small note, and dials them carefully.

 

“Yeah. Mike here.”

 

Tom licks his lips. 

 

Showtime.

.

 

“Mike, this is Tom Hiddleston.”

 

There’s a pause, then the cumbersome noise of shuffling, making Tom smile dryly. Somehow, Mike reminds him of Humpty Dumpty, that funny little egghead.

 

“How the hell did you get this number? Aren’t you in the cells zone?”, then -

 

“What do you want?”

 

Tom absently fingers with the phone’s cord, inhaling deeply before he speaks.

 

He’s hesitating, though deep down, he’d known he would go down this path for years.

 

“I want us to talk,” he says.

  
  


Within himself, Tom and the little fox that could let out a small sigh of relief.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small comment - 
> 
> Colleen McCullough is the author of the book "The thorn birds". I read it when I was far too young to fully grasp what that book was talking about, yet it touched me deeply. When I thought about the doctor's character and searched for a suitable name for it, this great author's name came into my mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone.  
> Phew, I'm so glad to be finally posting this chapter. It was really, REALLY difficult to write. I honestly hope the hard work will pay off and you'll get to enjoy it :) I'll do my very best to post the next chapter as soon as possible.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings to this chapter - I decided to list the warnings for this chapter at its footnotes, for the simple reason that they contain spoilers :)  
> However, before you scroll down to read them, may I advise you this - If you consider yourselves just a tiny bit tougher than those of the faintest of hearts, then I believe you should go ahead and read and skip the warnings. No blood is spilled, everyone comes out fine. I truly believe you'll get the most of this chapter by simply diving in :)

 

Tom reads the digits from a small note and dials them with care.

“Yeah. Mike here.”

Tom licks his lips.

“Mike, this is Tom Hiddleston.”

Mike’s hesitating pause pulla a smirk over Tom’s lips.

 

“How the hell did you get this number? Aren’t you in the cells zone?”

“What do you want?”

“I want us to talk.” 

 

“To talk?” Mike asks him, incredulous.

 

“Yeah, one on one,” Tom tells him, absently fidgeting with the phone’s cord.

 

“Your time will be of value. I promise.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Tom’s arms are crossed over his chest as he waits. He tries to conceive the conversation that is about to take place, replaying once then again the possible outcomes in his mind.

 

Beneath the table, his heel is bouncing.

 

When the door finally opens and Mike steps in, Tom straightens in his chair.

 

“Hiddleston. Just the man I wanted to see.”

 

Mike drops his car keys on the ugly green table with a low clank. His chair screeches the floor as he hauls it from the table.

 

“You said you wanted to talk. Now talk.”

 

Tom’s chest rises in a deep breath. He leans over the table.

 

“I want to become a state witness.”

 

Mike narrows his eyes doubtfully.

 

“A state witness.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“What makes you think the state is interested in you?”

 

“They will be,” Tom tells him smoothly. “Once they are aware of just how thorough my testimony is.” 

 

Mike puts his fingers to his lips thoughtfully, and, mentally prepared for Mike’s deterrence, Tom gathers his patience.

 

Obviously, Mike is not among Tom’s allies.

 

Whatever Tom’s request might be, Mike will most probably seek to refuse it, if only for the sole purpose of having the satisfaction of brushing Tom off. 

 

However, Tom’s offer serves both sides. The good reputation and prestige that will circle Mike and his unit should Tom’s testimonies bring fruit - are highly tempting. Parallelly, Tom’s knowledge will be exchanged for his release, or a significantly reduced sentence at the very least.

 

Tom understands this game well.

 

And so does Mike.

 

“I see,” Mike says eventually.

 

“A state witness. That’s quite - bold. Bordering on reckless, actually. Is that what you really want? To rat all of your friends?”

 

Tom clears his throat, swallowing the stupid jab. He needs Mike on his side now.

 

“Let’s just say I don’t miss them all that much when I go to sleep in my cell at night, and I’d bet the feeling is mutual.”

 

“Still. Aren’t you just a little be afraid?”

 

Tom purses his lips.

 

“Does it matter? I’ve got better things to do with my life rather than hiding under the bed while having a lousy tea party with my personal demons.”

 

Mike smirks at him.

 

“That’s a quite clever thing to say. I’ll make sure to repeat it to my kids tomorrow morning.”

 

Tom stares at him stupidly. Yet another person who tries to appear superior by belittling him.

 

When Mike realizes Tom won’t take the bait, he folds his arms over his chest.

 

“Let’s say your little scheme here materializes. Do you know what this kind of a step further entails?”

 

“No,” Tom admits reluctantly. That he doesn’t know. 

 

“Please enlighten me.”

Mike hums in thought.

 

“You will be questioned. Many, many times. And you will be asked to testify in court, under oath. Your movements might be fully or partially monitored.”

 

Tom’s foot resumes tapping the floor beneath the table, restless.

 

Yet additional measures which shall confiscate more of his already wounded freedom.

 

“What” Mike chuckles, “Details made you unhappy?”

 

Tom clicks his tongue, thoroughly annoyed. He knew this won’t be easy, but still, making the final decision is difficult. 

 

Mike places his arms on the table and leans towards him. 

 

“I’m willing to try and pull the strings to make this happen. All I want from you now is silence. Speak to no one about this until I have some actual news.”

 

“Are you in?” He asks Tom

 

Tom’s tongue feels heavy. Mike is a far cry from a trustful figure.

 

“I’m in,” he says quietly, “I’m in.”

 

Mike leans back in his chair, a disquieting smirk stretching his lips.

 

“Alright then, let’s try and get this boat sailing.”

  
  


\-------

  
  


Tom is lead back to his cell afterwards, eyes set at the floor even after the door behind him slams shut.

 

He sits down on his small bunk bed, staring at the small window as he tells himself over and over that deep down he’d known he would choose this path for years.

 

That what he’d just did - was inevitable.

  
  


\-----@@@@------

  
  


At a late evening hour at the next day, comes a metallic chaffing of a key unlocking the door.

 

Tom peers from behind his book, watching a guard entering his cell.

 

“You have a visitor.”

 

“A visitor?”

 

“Yep.” The guard regards him idly, tweaking the set of keys in his palm, making them clink against each other.

 

“No funny bullshit Hiddleston. You have a few minutes, no more,” the guard informs him and turns away.

 

Tom narrows his eyes suspiciously at his cell’s open door. A chilling thought occurs to him, that somehow Ravitz has managed to bribe the guards into letting him in here. 

 

“Come in,” the guard gestures to Tom’s visitor, whoever they might be, and Tom lowers his book, hiding it under his pillow. He flattens his palms on the mattress, ready to move quickly if necessary.

 

He carries no weapon to protect himself. Nothing at all.

 

A man steps into the cell, his demeanor cautious.

 

Their gazes meet, and Tom parts his lips in wonder.

 

Chris stands next to the door, looking at Tom uncertainly.

 

“Hello,” he says with a small nod.

 

“What are you doing here,” Tom nearly whispers, instinctively not wanting the guards to be able to hear their conversation. He stands up from the small bed to face Chris.

 

“I wanted to speak with you,” Chris says.

 

“To speak- with me?” Tom breathes a small, erupting smile. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, this is quite unexpected,” he murmurs, and glances at his sleeping arrangements, thinking fast.

 

“Just- give me a moment,” he attends the small bunk bed, quickly clearing it. By heart, 

Tom sends a quiet thanks to the god above that his cellmate is absent, allowing him and Chris some blessed privacy.

 

Him and Chris. Tom bites his lip from smiling. What a lovely surprise.

 

“It’s not much, but please, have a seat.”

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry yourself,” Chris sits down with his hands entwined over his knees.

 

“I hope it’s ok that I came here,” he gives Tom a hesitant look.

 

Tom furrows his eyebrows. He has to laugh at that.

 

“You hope it’s ok? You’re probably the nicest visitor I could ask for,” Tom says with some heat in his belly. It’s the truth.

 

“Oh, ok,” Chris flushes, touching his stubble, “that sounds good enough.”

 

Tom bites his lip in anticipation, excited to hear what Chris has to say. He’s come here with good spirits, Tom can feel it.

 

Chris puts his fist to his mouth as he clears his throat.

 

“I came here to thank you.”

 

“Thank me?” The notion makes Tom smile again. Really?

 

“Yes. You - helped me. Twice. Once when you kept me stable after I was shot, and then - with the doctor you spoke to me about.”

 

Tom’s smile widens.

 

“You went to see her? She helped you?”

 

“I did, and she helped me, yes.”

 

“That’s wonderful!,” Tom laughs, wholeheartedly delighted. He’s overwhelmed by a wild impulse to draw Chris into an embrace, but grips his knee instead. Clever. He must be clever about this. 

 

“What did she say?”

 

“Well,” Chris flicks his eyes over to Tom, amused by Tom’s bright excitement. “She said plenty, but the bottom line is that I can actually get back to myself. It will require me to work hard, and it certainly won’t happen in a day - but it’s possible.”

 

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Tom says through his smile, “truly delightful. she’s a spectacular lady, isn’t she.” 

 

“Oh, she is” Chris nods, “She is.” 

 

“She is - unique. She’s tough, but she’s - she’s hopeful. Positive.”

 

Chris tells him more about the physical program the doctor had assigned to him, about how he’d already started following it, changing his daily routine in order to fit as many exercises into his everyday life. He tells Tom that even though his movements are slow, he now walks home from the police station instead of taking the bus.

 

“It sounds trivial,” Chris says, “but to me -  it means everything. I haven’t walked more than a few feet, with or without any aid, since the day of the shooting.”

 

Tom watches him as he speaks. This decent, friendly conversation with Chris sends his heart into a little triumphant dance within his chest.

 

“It doesn’t sound trivial at all, it sounds great.”  

Chris pays him a small smile, and Tom returns him the same. This-, Tom suddenly realizes, is perhaps the first time he sees Chris genuinely smiling.

 

“I don’t think I would have been able to find, least of all meet this doctor - without your help.” Chris tells him, ”Thank you, thank you for this.”

 

Tom smiles warmly, satisfied to his very core. 

 

“You’re welcome. You deserve it. You deserve a good treatment, good attitude, a minimal sense of solidarity.”

 

Chris looks at him for a long moment.

 

“How did you- how did you know the doctors I met weren’t- satisfactory?” 

 

“It was obvious. The way you behaved when you came to question me, your anger, your impatience, frustration, it all spoke volumes of possible medical negligence, of ill-treatment.”

 

Chris purses his lips thoughtfully, lowering his gaze to the ground.

 

“I behaved like a touchy idiot.”

 

“You didn’t. You were a man in distress.” Tom speaks softly, calmly. 

 

“And now you're better .”

 

A small smile touches Chris’s lips.

 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, then looks at Tom.

“Thanks to you.”

 

Their eyes lock, and linger. Tom’s heart bounces in his chest. He wants to reach out and trace his fingers over Chris’s cheek.

 

Chris averts his eyes, looking away. He glances at the opposite bunk bed and inspects Tom’s cell, his neck tinted with a flush.

 

“Are you doing ok in here?”

 

Tom exhales softly, considering Chris’s question. The loss of the moment between them saddens him.

 

“Hmm. Some of the people around here  don’t like me all that much,” he says, thinking about Mike in particular, “but all in all - I’m doing fine.”

 

“Don’t like you?” Chris asks him, looking puzzled, “You’ve kept the rules of the place since you arrived in here, you’ve started no fights, no arguments with nobody. You’re one of many inmates. Why would anyone have a problem with you?”

 

Tom is nearly amused. Chris is being naive, but sweetly so.

 

It’s a sharp, refreshing contrast to Tom’s past social circle.

 

“Because,” he says slowly, looking into Chris’s eyes, “I am not an idiot.”

 

“And cops like us cons stupid and violent, easy to judge and punish.”

 

Chris stares at him, quiet and solemn.

 

Tom meets his stare. It will hurt when he leaves tonight.

 

“But you are very different than the others,” he says. 

 

Tom takes a cautious breath, and covers Chris’s hand with his own.

 

Even if this ends up with Chris punching his face, it’s ok. It’s fine. He will take it.

 

“I’m not sorry that you caught me, you know,” he tells Chris. That is also the strange, shady truth.

 

Chris stares at their joined hands, eyebrows furrowed in thought, until he lifts his eyes to Tom’s.

 

“I’m not sure what to say to that. Is that a good thing?”

 

A smile touches Tom’s lips.

 

“I think so. Sometimes I think you saved me from those killer morons,” he says, and drags his fingers over Chris’s knuckles.

 

Under his touch, Chris hand tenses, shrinking into a fist.

 

“Tom,” Chris mutters under his breath.

 

Their eyes meet again, and Tom lifts a tentative hand to Chris’s face, caressing his fingertips over Chris’s cheek.

 

“Tom,” Chris swallows visibly, “we shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

“Why,” Tom touches Chris’s brow, remembering he’d once kissed it. 

 

“Because you're a cop?”

 

Chris says nothing, and Tom leans slightly closer to him.

 

“You remember what I told you last time? I’m leaving all of my lawbreaking life behind. No more of this, not for the rest of my life. I meant it.”

 

Chris’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement.

 

“I intend to return to ordinary civilian life as soon as I can manage.”

“And I’ll come to you as a normal man,” Tom says lightly, fingers hovering over Chris’s stubble.

 

Chris is very still under Tom’s touch, yet his skin is warm, his neck now visibly blushing.

 

He would have waited longer with this, Tom thinks with an internal sigh. He would have allowed Chris more time to warm up to him, yet something within warns Tom that this opportunity won’t return.

 

“Will it be ok I kiss you before you leave?” Tom asks, making Chris draw a sharp breath. He takes Tom’s hand away from his face.

 

“I don’t think you should.” 

 

Tom ceases his approach, but maintains their relative proximity.

 

There’s is this something about Chris’s behavior, this edge that erupts whenever Tom tries to get close, that makes Tom think. 

 

“Is it because we’re both men?” 

 

Chris turns to look at Tom, eyes sharp, as if affronted by Tom daring saying the words out loud.

 

“You think this is a game, don’t you.”

 

“No, I do not. You’re the one who thinks I’m playing with you. What I think is that you are afraid for the wrong, stressful reasons.”

“What? What are you-” Chris clicks his tongue.

 

“You don’t know what you are talking about, ok?” 

 

“You don’t know me. Half of what you think of me is probably wrong. I’m not the nice person you think I am-”

 

Tom touches Chris’s shoulder, making him pause.

 

“You’re being silly Chris, silly and dangerously naive,” Tom looks into Chris’s eyes.

 

“I will never hurt you. Not willingly. What I want is to spend time with you. Alone.”

 

He squeezes Chris’s shoulder. 

 

“And I would have helped you so much more with your wound if only I could get out of this place.”

 

_ But I will _ , Tom thinks,  _ I will get out of here. I’ll make it. _

 

Chris stares at him, eyes wide with silent bewilderment. 

 

But then, harsh knock on the cell’s door shutters the silence, startling them both.

 

“Hemsworth? Is everything alright in there? Time’s almost up.”

 

Alarmed, Chris looks at the door, and Tom quickly reaches for Chris’s neck.

 

“Just a few more moments,” he says earnestly, and by pure impulse, he plants a kiss Chris’s cheek.

 

“Please don’t go yet,” he whispers close to Chris’s ear, his heart beating faster.

 

Chris draws a tight exhale.

 

“I-” he clears his throat, “give me three more minutes Russ.”

 

Tom breathes a relieved smile, a sense of glee making his belly tingle. Chris is not pushing him away.

 

He touches Chris’s jaw, making Chris look at him.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells him.

 

He smoothes Chris’s hair behind his ear, and experimentally leans towards Chris’s face. When Chris does nothing to stop him, Tom closes the rest of the distance between them - until their mouths meet.

 

It’s a soft, gentle kiss, probably the purest act of emotions Tom has experienced during the last few years.

 

He parts his lips, exploring with caution, and conceals a quiet moan when their tongues meet.

 

Tom shudders with pleasure.

 

He wants… he wants Chris to lie on the bed next to him.

 

They part, and Chris looks at him with uncertainty. Tom moves to give him some sort of reassurance, but suddenly, Chris’s arm moves around his waist, pulling Tom closer to him.

 

Tom sucks in a breath. He leans over for another kiss, a jolt of heated blood rushing to his groin when Chris presses him close to his side.

 

Their kiss deepens, tasting as good as Tom had hoped it would, or even better, he can’t think of anything but what is happening. Chris digs his fingers into Tom’s hips, and Tom whimpers - resisting the urge to push Chris down with him to the mattress.

 

Chris’s grip loosens, as if sensing Tom’s conflict, and breaks their kiss to lower his face to Tom’s shoulder.

 

“If we don’t stop now, I don’t know how this will end,” he mutters against Tom’s neck. 

 

Tom exhales heavily. He doesn’t want Chris to leave.

 

“The stupid guard will come in any moment now,” he runs his hand through Chris’ hair.

 

“Would you- would you like to come here for another visit?”

 

Chris pauses, and Tom leans to kiss his brow.

 

“Come back and visit me three days from now. Late night time, early noon, whenever you like. I’ll get this other funny chap out of the cell so we’ll be able to talk and- do whatever we want,” he says in a smile nobody knows about but him.

 

Chris lifts his head from Tom’s shoulder, and Tom touches his cheek.

 

“I want to see you again,” he says hopefully.

 

“Ok,” Chris nods, “I’ll come.”

 

Tom smiles, he can hardly believe it, but then another knock on the door staggers the moment, causing them both to jump to their feet.

 

When Chris turns to look at him, Tom steps closer and draws Chris into an embrace.

 

“I’ll be thinking about you all the time,” Tom’s emotions spill out of his mouth. 

 

Chris brings his hands to Tom’s back, dragging his palms up and down Tom’s spine, who closes his eyes at the sensation, enamored with it instantly. 

 

“What do you mean, you’ll return to civilian life as soon as you can?”

 

Tom swallows tightly, drawing Chris even closer to him.

 

“I can’t- I can’t tell you yet, ok? Please - trust me with this one. I need to get a few things done - and then I’ll be able to tell you more, ok?”

 

“Ok,” Chris replies after a moment of hesitation.

 

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise,” Tom says against his shoulder.

 

“Now Go. Before he barges in. Come back again and we’ll - we’ll talk, about everything,” Tom murmurs. His heart is riding in his chest. What he feels knows no boundaries.

 

“Will you be alright in here?” Chris leans slightly over to him, eyes searching in concern.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Tom chuckles, “but I’ll do infinitely better when you come back again.” 

 

“Now go,” go before it hurts too much.

 

“Thank you for helping me, thank you,” Chris says, embracing Tom close once again, and Tom relishes in it, savoring the moment.

 

Chris releases Tom then, and turns around and walks, sending one last sheepish glance at Tom before he exits the room.

 

Tom shoves his hands into his pockets, wordlessly staring at Chris’s reproaching back.

 

“You’re welcome love,” Tom mutters under his breath, his heart a tight mix of all there is.

 

“You’re welcome.”

  
  


\------

  
  


When he cannot hear Chris’s receding footsteps anymore, Tom sits down on his bed with a low thud.

 

He buries his face in his palms, then runs both of them through his hair.

 

He drops back on the small bed, staring at the ceiling as his body cools down.

 

Tom drags his palm down his chest, stopping just above his waistline.

 

“What a man,” he murmurs, and grins into the dark. 

 

\------------

  
  


For the first time in a long, long time in Tom’s life, things are starting to look up.

 

Things are actually getting better.

  
  


\-------------

  
  


Chris walks slowly through the halls of the station, thanking the guards with a nod. 

 

He carries himself casually, absolutely supposedly composed, - up until he unlocks his car and slides into the driver’s seat.

 

The public parking lot is almost empty of other vehicles, now ruled by the rhythmic trill of nocturnal creatures.

 

What did just happen, Chris wonders frantically.

 

He wipes his palm over his face.

 

_ I would never hurt you. Not willingly. _

 

_ What I want is to spend time with you. Alone. _

 

Chris exhales into his palm, his eyes closed.

 

Nobody talks like that. Nobody. 

 

He can’t remember himself saying anything even remotely close to that to his ex-wife, or any other lady he’d dated for that matter. Chris didn’t think it was bloody possible.

 

And the way Tom behaves around him, gradually coming closer and closer… Chris huffs into the night.

 

“Fucking Don Juan, is what he is,” Chris mutters under his breath.

 

He has to go home. He has to drink some cold water before he loses it completely.

 

He switches on the engine, pressing the gas pedal to the car’s floor with far too much excitement- causing the vehicle to roar back into life.

 

His ears are burning all the way back to his home, and then after.

  
  


\--------

  
  
  


He tosses around in his bed throughout the night, unable to forget, his mind refusing to let go of the fresh memories.

  
  
  


\--------

  
  


The next morning, Chris pauses at the office entrance, half expecting everyone to stare at him knowingly.

 

But no such thing happens.

 

The office is running as it does every other day, with the occasional chatter or an argument coming from one of the rooms.

 

“Good morning,” Chris murmurs, and heads to his desk. He switches on his computer, and stares at the screen as it loads.

 

_ Would you like to come here for another visit? _

 

Chris shakes his head, taking a deep, long breath.

 

_ Come back and visit two days from now. _

 

He’d agreed to do it, but- it was at the heat of the moment. He shouldn’t have.

 

He shouldn’t go.

 

He didn’t want any of this to happen. 

 

...Or did he.

 

With a groan, Chris wipes his palm over his mouth

 

He forces himself to read through the case file, and even write down a few comments.

Work keeps his mind mostly occupied, maintaining his thoughts relatively still, for which he is thankful. 

  
  
  
  


Because he absolutely should not go and visit Tom again.

  
  


\-------------

  
  


Chris closes the door behind him, and places his set of keys on the table. 

 

Today, the kids are with his ex. The house is quiet.

 

He takes a cold shower, then walks back to the living room and takes his usual place on the couch, not bothering to switch on the television. 

 

He lies back with his arms folded behind his head, not sleepy at all.

 

The weather is strangely warm today, resulting in a peaceful, comforting night time.

 

After a long day at work, Chris is hidden from others’ constant criticism, and he closes his eyes, finally allowing himself to remember.

  
  
  


It felt good. 

 

It felt pretty damn good.

  
  
  


Good, and honest.

  
  


_ \---- _ @@@@ _ \---- _

  
  


A knock on the door demands Tom’s attention.

 

He looks up from his book.

 

“Hiddleston, there’s a visitor for you.”

 

A visitor. Tom remains still in his bed. 

 

Chris and he had agreed upon three days time. It’s only been a day since they met. If it really is Chris, he’s two days early, but it doesn’t matter one bit. Tom’s heart misses a beat anyway.

 

The guard peeks at him from the door.

 

“You decent? I’m letting him in Tom. You have ten minutes at most.”

 

Ten minutes. Those mingy bastards. They’ll ruin everything.

 

He stands up from his cot and runs a hand through his hair that’s gone astray - and bites off a stupid, expectant smile. He glances at his bed, nodding to himself when it looks respectable and neat, and looks back at the door.

 

He thinks of kissing Chris again, good and hard this time, and the notion sends a warm, tight wave through his belly.

 

A man comes into the cell, his eyes finding Tom’s immediately, a small smirk on his lips.

 

Tom pauses.

 

When he recognizes the man, his shoulders falter at once, his heart thickening into a cold ball.

 

Mike - Mike steps into his cell and stands in front of him.

 

“I have a green light Hiddleston. We’re good to go.”

 

At first, Tom feels nothing. The sense of false hope crawls through his chest like liquid glass. 

 

“What do you mean,” he answers in a flat voice, though he knows perfectly well what Mike is talking about.

 

“A state witness Tom, a witness of state. I’ve got us a deal. I can make it happen.”

 

Tom stares at him, finding it difficult to respond.

 

“Well done Mikey, well done,” he says with a forced smile, “that was quick.”

 

Mike’s forehead creases. He eyes Tom with curiously.

 

“You don’t look too happy. Are you backing out Tom?”

 

Tom’s arms feel heavy, hanging awkwardly at his sides.

 

His most basic instincts are calling for his attention, warning him that Mike is one of the last people on earth Tom should make an agreement with.

 

Mike, however, is the only figure around here that is both senior and sneaky enough to get the police pipes working in Tom’s interests.

 

“What, your golden testimonies are suddenly lost when it’s money time?”

 

Tom straightens his posture and meets Mike’s doubtful stare.

 

Without him, Tom is almost certainly set to spend years in custody and lose his chance in returning to normal civilian life. 

 

And his chance with Chris will most probably be lost as well. 

 

“No, no. I’m in for it.”

 

“Excellent, good.” Mike nods, then furrows his eyebrows, appearing thoughtful.

 

“There are two things I feel I must inform you of before we start.”

 

“Go on,” Tom says with caution.

 

“The first - is that you will be transferred from here. Permanently.”

 

“Transferred?” Tom was not expecting that. The possibility suddenly seems bloody obvious, of course, he should have thought of that, yet he hadn’t even considered the option.

 

“Yes. State witnesses of your status do not reside in here, but in a specialized complex,” Mike says, looking annoyingly pleased, and Tom wonders just how much of this is true and how much is simply an exaggeration of the rules which Mike will bend him to, just to show Tom who’s boss.

 

The significance of what Mike is implying begins to dawn on him. Tom will be taken away from here, from his family, from his hometown, from Chris.

 

Tom wipes his face and runs his hand through his hair. He knew this wouldn't be easy, yet facing the actual consequences feels nothing short of horrible. He has no doubt it will make things a lot more difficult.

 

“And the second thing you wanted to tell me?”

 

Mike cocks his head at him in what Tom can only interpret as an implicit provocation.

 

“No one but your family, your closest family, can know about this.”

 

Tom is unable to restrain his disapproving frown anymore.

 

“What? What does that mean?”   
  


“The witnessing program is, in your case, highly classified. That means, that only your parents, and your sisters perhaps, are able to know about your intended purpose.”

 

Tom shivers at the mention of his family spoken by this man.

 

“That means,” Mike pauses, “that you can’t talk about this to Chris either.” 

 

Tom’s heart thickens to led. He holds Mike’s stare for a long, cold moment. 

 

“I see.” 

 

Mike waits for further response, but when none comes, he nods with a small, nefarious smile.

 

“Good, excellent. Now, this will happen quickly, we start the day after tomorrow. Monday morning.”

 

Monday. Just two days time. The same day Chris is supposed to come and see him.

“Monday morning - You are leaving this place.”

 

With a slow, quiet exhale, Tom leans back on the upper bunk bed, pushing his hands into his plain, empty pockets.

 

For years now, Tom has been mingling with corrupted society, foxing his way through notorious types of people who tear their enemies flesh with sharp, vicious teeth.

 

“Tell me, Mike.”

 

“Are you jealous?”

 

Mike tilts his head sharply.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Are you- jealous? That I asked to be personally interrogated by Chris? That I willingly gave him all the information he asked for while giving nothing to your people?”

 

Mike raises a patronizing eyebrow, his lips pressed into a thin, white line.

 

“What are you talking about? Why the hell would I be jealous of that? What’s jealousy has to do with anything?”

 

Tom holds his gaze. His skin is prickling with impending heat.

 

He’s not the only thief in the room.

 

“Because - you want Chris for yourself.”

 

At first, Mike simply stares at him, his face losing all traces of any expression to it, remaining alarmingly, oddly blank.

 

“You think you’re smart, Tommy, but you’re not. Not with me. I’m a married man Tom, I have kids.”

 

His mind is screaming at him to take the money and run, to shut the hell up and simply aim for the target, but Tom wants to bite this man.

 

There is, he suddenly begins to realize, a competition going on.

 

And Mike wants him out of the race.

 

“A man’s actions do not always sit well with where his mind wanders to.”

 

Mike purses his lips in revulsion, his cheeks tinted with red.

 

“For your information, Chris used to be a married man. To a lovely woman. He had two beautiful kids with her. They bought a house together. You’ll do well to forget him. He doesn't care one bit about you.”

 

Tom wants to laugh in his face, loud and sharp, but he fists his palm deeper into his pocket instead. 

 

“Thanks for the tip. You know so much about him,” he says slowly. 

 

“His divorce probably made you a happy little camper.”

 

Mike sends him a dark, weightful frown. He lifts his fist, and knocks it on the wall with a quick punch. He then points his finger at Tom’s face.

 

“I’m on duty at the moment,” he begins,  “And so, I’ll restrain myself.” 

 

“Had we been in the streets right now, I would have reacted rather differently.”

 

Mike licks his lips, his throat visibly working as he swallows.

 

“Listen to me carefully Hiddleston. I don’t give a damn about what your twisted mind is cooking for you. If I so much as think that you spoke to Chris about this, the whole business is off.”

 

“I won’t say a bloody word about the testimony,” Tom tells him, “All I want is to inform him that I am being transferred.”

 

“Go,” Mike tilts his chin, “tell him whatever you like. Spill the whole sack of beans for all I care.”

 

“You will never become a state witness. Not for as long as I’m here,” he pays a small kick to Tom’s bunk bed. 

 

“You’ll be staying here for a long, hopeless time.”

  
  


\---------

  
  


Once the door is locked after Mike’s leave, Tom drives his fist into the nearest wall with a snarl, almost splitting his skin on the cold concrete.

 

He curses Mike and the day he’d met the man.

 

He drops to his small cot with a thud, burying his face between his palms as he continues to swear through his teeth.

 

It will be fine, he tells himself. It will be fine. He’ll find the right way to overcome this.

 

Because it’s either this, or rotting in here for the next twenty years. 

  
  


\--------------

  
  


That following night, Chris sits on his couch, his bottle of cool beer standing on the small coffee table next to him, entirely untouched. 

 

They’d said three days, and tomorrow evening is the appointed time.

 

He stares at the living room walls for a rather long while, until he stands from cushions with a sigh and heads to his bedroom. He prepares himself for another restless night.

  
  
  


He shouldn’t go to see Tom again.

  
  
  


But he wants to.

  
  
  
  


\------@@@@------

  
  


Tom is sitting on his cot, wordlessly awake long before the door to his cell opens on a very early Monday morning.

 

He rises to his feet as soon as the guard, Owen, enters his cell.

 

“Good morning Hiddleston. Your ride is waiting for you outside.”

 

Tom’s cellmate, Filthy Ray, or so he calls himself, stirs in his bed, shuffling around to watch the unrevealing scene.

 

He looks at Tom from head to toe, then at Tom’s cot, noticing Tom’s backpack, all packed up with Tom’s few belongings.

 

Slowly, he sits up in his bed.

 

“Are you leaving Elton?”

 

Filthy had never been able to properly recall Tom’s name. Therefore, Elton John it was.

 

“Transferred,” Tom tells him, carefully observing Owen’s face.

 

“Owen,” he says, taking a small step towards the guard with his hands raised to show Owen he means no harm.

 

Owen is one of the nicest members of the local staff. He’d always been kind to Tom, always respectful. 

 

Tom draws a small, folded note from his pocket, and offers it to Owen.

 

“Would you please take this note to an officer named Chris Hemsworth? It says nothing of value, I promise you. Only that I am being transferred.”

 

Owen shifts uncomfortably, his eyebrows furrowing in concern.

 

“I’m sorry Tom. I can’t do this for you,” he says, not unkindly. 

 

“I’ve been told you might make this request, and specifically been instructed not to follow it.”

 

Appalled, Tom stares at him. 

 

“Did Mike tell you that?” 

 

“He told me this transfer is classified, and no one can know nothing about this business.”

 

Tom’s shoulders slump in defeat.  He’s being torn from this place, where both his family and Chris are.

 

Mike had pushed him to the corner like a caged animal.

 

“I’m sorry Tom. Come on,” he says and touches Tom’s shoulder, leading him to the door.

 

“Let’s go. You’ll be fine-”

 

“Everything will be fine.”

  
  


\----------------

  
  
  


Mike is waiting for them outside the building, casually leaning his shoulder on the vehicle, his arms folded over his chest. 

 

“Thanks, Owen. I’ll take it from here.”

 

Owen touches Tom’s arm with a nod. “You’ll be fine Tom. I’ll see you around buddy,” he says, and turns around to leave.

 

“Morning, Hiddleston.” 

 

“Morning,” Tom doesn’t bother to meet the man’s eyes.

 

Letting out a useless, stupid chuckle, Mike reaches out to cuff Tom’s hands. 

 

How absolutely unnecessary, Tom thinks, but says nothing. He’s far too close to get this man out of his way to risk it by raising an argument.

 

Mike straightens when he’s done, cocking his head at Tom. He looks quite satisfied. 

 

“I guess this is where we part ways, isn’t it.”

 

Tom eyes their surroundings with an impatient exhale.

 

With the sun yet to rise, the sky above is still mostly dark. They are standing at the middle of a gray, old parking lot outside the police station, with seemingly no one else present but them and the car driver.  

 

“Let us hope so.”

He’s been a prison inmate for a few weeks already, yet only now Tom feels trapped for the first time. 

 

Mike narrows his eyes, letting a few dark moments pass in silence.

 

“You really thinks he gives a damn, huh.” 

 

Mike pinches his nose, with spite, and suddenly, he leans close, clutching Tom’s uppers arm.

 

“Now, there’s a piece of my mind I wanted to give you before you’re getting out of my sight for good.”

 

Tom freezes on the spot, a chill rushing through him as Mike brings his mouth close to his ear.

 

“You listen, and listen carefully, Hiddleston. You don’t get to tell me or my officers what to do. You don’t decide who questions you and why, you understand?”

 

“You don’t walk around my damn unit under my nose and ask your officers for Chris’s desk number, my number, or any other officer for all I care, you hear?”

 

“You think you’re the fucking king of merry old England, but you’re not pal, you're not. What you are is a dirty, meaningless little rat.”

 

Tom breathes as evenly as he can through his tight chest. He looks rigidly ahead, as still as a statue as Mike speaks.  

 

_ I’m doing the right thing,  _ he reminds himself.  _ For me, for my family. _

 

_ For Chris. He will never wait for me if I stay locked up in jail. _

 

Mike leans back, drawing a small gasp of relief from Tom’s lips.  

 

“Have a lovely day Hiddleston,” he says without looking at Tom, “now get into the vehicle.”

 

He opens the car’s door, and grips Tom’s shoulder painfully enough, pushing him inside the car.

 

With his heart in his ears and his wrists closely cuffed, Tom stares at the car seat when Mike doesn’t release his shoulder. 

 

He licks his lips, his breath hot on Tom’s face while he lingers.

 

“Chris doesn’t belong to you, I hope you realize this by now,” Mike tells him in a low voice. 

 

“And one more thing before you’re fading away from here.”

 

Mike snatches Tom’s shirt collar then, jerking him close until Tom is forced to look at him.

 

The red rage that covers Mike’s face makes Tom’s breath catch in his throat. He closes his eyes, willing all of this to be over.

 

“I’m not a fucking faggot like you are,” Mike growls at him, “you understand that?”

 

“Answer me,” Mike yanks Tom’s collar even closer, “Do you understand?”

 

Tom swallows with difficulty. 

 

“I understand,” he murmurs.

 

_ I’ll keep it as our dirty little secret. _

 

“excellent,” Mike releases him and slaps his shoulder in a dreading, friendly manner, “all is well then.”

 

“You’re a jolly good guy when you want to, Hiddleston.”

 

“Just as I fucking thought you are.”

  
  


\--------------

  
  


As the vehicle drives on, with his hands cuffed in his lap, Tom wills his body to relax. 

 

He watches the urban view changes into a sparse countryside, yet only succeeds in maintaining his composure for a few short minutes.

 

The lump in his throat grows too heavy to contain, and Tom covers his face with his bound hands, concealing himself from the car driver. 

 

Hot, heavy tears glide over his cheeks as he swallows his betraying whimpers.

 

He prays that he’d made the right decision.

  
  


The note he’d written for Chris nests shriveled in his otherwise empty pockets, and it shall remain so for many, many days to come.

 

\--------------

  
  
  


At exactly five pm on Wednesday afternoon, Chris drops his pen on the table and switches off his computer, unable to concentrate on his work a minute longer.

He packs his bag, and makes his way to the men’s room, where he changes his t-shirt to a new one he’d packed last night, just in case his working day time attire might obtain any trace of bad odor. 

 

Chris heads towards imprisonment wing D, intending to enter one of the wing’s senior officers, his preschool friend Andrew. It is the same officer who’d approved his previous visit to Tom’s cell.

 

Chris halts a few feet from Andrew’s door, rehearsing the most reasonable excuse he’d managed to come up with since morning, the one he is about to give Andrew as he will ask for another meeting with Tom.

 

He licks his lips, stretches his neck, and knocks on the door to Andrew’s office. 

 

“Come in,” Andrews lifts his eyes from his desk.

 

“Hemsworth!” Andrew smiles brightly at Chris, welcoming him with a slap to his back.

 

“How have you been mate, legs are getting better?”

 

“Working on it,” Chris flushes, though he’s not offended at all. Andrew is one of the good lads.

 

They chit chat for a few minutes, about Andrew’s family and Chris’s children, until Andrew leaves the table to fetch them both a drink from his so-called special cabinet.

 

“Nobody cares what I do in here after five pm,” Andrew tells Chris with a wink.

 

When he returns to the table and hands Chris his drink, Chris wonders just how he should wisely direct their conversation towards the real business he came for.

 

But when Andrew reappears at the table with a pensive look, Chris holds his thoughts.

 

“It’s interesting you’ve come here today,” Andrew says.

 

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

 

Andrew takes a large sip from his cup, a slightly tipsy smile on his lips.

 

“Tom Hiddleston,” he points at Chris, sending a cold thrill through Chris’s chest.

 

“Tom Hiddleston,” he says again, “isn’t he the guy you visited just a few days ago?”

 

Chris clears his throat as casually as possible.

 

“Yeah, that’s the guy.” 

 

“What about him,” Chris asks, wanting to know what this is about.

 

“He was transferred today. did you know that?”

 

Chris stares at him, unable to speak for a long, haunted moment.

 

What?

 

“I - did not.” 

 

“Well, that’s news for you then. He was taken before sunrise.”

 

Taken. Before sunrise.

 

Chris’s spine goes rigid, sending thin throbs of pain down to his left, scarred hip. He makes absolutely no movement to betray his discomfort.

 

“What- what happened?” Chris tries to find his wits, “Did he get into a fight or something?”

 

Andrew purses his lips. “Nope. I would have heard of something like that. He behaved perfectly well while in here.” 

 

“Then why-” Chris’s forehead creases, “why did they take him?“

 

“That - I don’t know. Owen here came to me the night before with a transfer warrant. When I asked him for a reason, he said that all he knows that is this came from above as classified business.”

 

Classified business?

 

Chris thinks hard, frantically searching for questions that might gather more valuable information.

 

“Was it…. Was it against his will?” he can hear himself stuttering, “Did he… did he fight them? Was it ugly?”

 

“Oh no, no,” Simon shakes his head, “it was nothing like that. I saw it with my own eyes. He went willingly enough, all calm, his bag hanging nicely over his back.”

 

Chris blinks at Andrew, wordless. 

 

Willingly. Tom went away willingly. Calmly.

 

He lowers his eyes, his belly twisting with nauseating density. 

 

Just three days ago they-, they... and Tom asked him to come and visit him again, this very night.

 

He wants to say something, anything, but he can’t.

“Is everything ok mate?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris tells him right away, “everything is fine. I just - I thought-” Chris licks his lips, feeling devastatingly stupid,  “I don’t know what I thought.”

 

“Hmm,” Andrew ponders thoughtfully.

 

“You two were friends or something?”

 

“No, I- no. ”

 

Andrew looks at him doubtfully.

 

“You shouldn't let those guys get too close to you, these cons. They tell you all kinds of things, let you think the strangest thoughts. You should be careful with those people, mate.”

 

“Right, right,” Chris licks his dry lips, taking a forced, large sip from his drink that burns his throat.

 

_ “I’ll be thinking about you all the time,” _ Chris hears Tom’s voice in his head, and a chunk of anger bursts close to his heart.

 

He consumes more of his drink, only pretending to listen while Andrew utters a few more sentences Chris cannot bring himself to comprehend.

 

And between the alcohol and the anger that grows within, Chris begins to wonder.

 

Had Tom planned this? Had he known about this transfer when Chris visited him? 

 

Had there been other officers Tom had- tried to get close to? 

 

Chris pauses at the thought, and places down his cup on the table.

 

He wants to know, yet he dreads to hear the truth more than he can say with words.

 

“Did he- did Tom befriend anyone in here? Did he- get close to someone?” Chris asks with an internal shiver, cutting into Andrew’s sentence. 

 

“Someone other than me,” Chris clarifies, looking straight into Andrew’s eyes.

 

“Hmm,” Andrew ponders Chris’s question.

 

“Actually - there was one person with whom Hiddleston met more than once,” Andrew looks at Chris as he finds an answer.

 

“I’m pretty sure it was, um-”

 

“Mike.”

  
  
  


\-----------------

  
  
  


Luckily, the kids are not at home that night.

 

Chris lies in his bed, staring at the white ceiling for a what feels like hours.

 

His sleep is horrible, his mind continuously calculating, reaching for possible explanations.

 

The following morning, Chris’s face is expressionless as he takes his seat at his desk, rubbing his aching hips after a long walk. He switches on his computer and opens his pending case file. He stares at the words, yet he reads nothing.

 

When the door opens to let Mike into the office, Chris lifts his eyes from the screen, surveying Mike’s figure as he walks through the room, sending carefree morning greetings to the present officers.

 

He pretends to continue working on his case file as Mike nears him, stifling a gasp when a slap lands on his back.

 

“Morning Chris buddy,” Mike stops next to him, “I saw you walking to the station this morning. Well done. Well done.”

 

“You're looking all healthy and handsome, champ,” Mike winks at him.

 

Chris looks into the man’s eyes. Mike’s praise is somewhat odd, but seemingly honest

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’m in my office if you need anything,” he says, behaving by some generosity Chris is not sure he’d seen before or not.

 

“Have a good day then,” Mike squeezes his shoulder, and turns to walk to his office.

 

“Thanks,” Chris murmurs.

 

He watches Mike’s retreating back, wordlessly gazing at the hallway long after Mike disappears into his room.

 

Something dark and impulsive coils in Chris’s belly. 

 

He tries to resist it, but he can’t.

 

He lowers his gaze to his weakened legs for an unstable moment, and then - rises from his chair and follows Mike’s steps.

 

“Mike,” Chris knocks on the door to his office, “may I come in.”

 

“Absolutely,” Mike smiles at him, taking off his coat and hanging it on his chair, “come in, come in.”

 

Chris takes the single chair in front of Mike’s desk, quietly looking at the small photo of Mike’s family.

 

“How can I help you Chris.”

 

“Tom was transferred yesterday,” he uses Tom’s first name on purpose, wanting to observe Mike’s response.

 

Mike’s face darkens at once. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest.

 

“Yes, he was.”

 

Indeed. Mike knew about this.

 

“Where was he taken to?”

 

“I’m sorry Chris, but I can’t tell you that. That information is classified.”

 

“Classified?”

 

“Classified.” Mike nods gravely at him.

 

Chris looks closely at the man as he speaks. His blood is gaining heat with every single word Mike says.

 

But somehow, Mike appears to be telling the truth.

 

“Everything I did, Chris, was according to his request, I assure you.”

 

Chris frowns at him.

 

“What are you saying? He asked for this?”

 

A small smirk appears on Mike’s lips.

 

“He did, yes. Would you like to see his neat signature on the transfer documents?”

 

At a lack of an intelligible response, Chris stares at him, and Mikes leans forward, hands entwined over the table.

 

“Why are you asking about this man Chris? Are you friends with him?”

 

Chris tries to think, to find the logic in what is going on, but somehow, the pieces of the puzzle do not seem to fit at all.

 

Mike doesn’t appear to… be fond of Tom, or be protective of him. Quite the contrary. He looks rather satisfied with the fact that Tom is here no longer.

 

“He helped me. More than you know.”

 

“He’s a damn thief, that’s what he is,” Mike points at Chris’s chest.

 

“You should be careful of him, Chris. What if he’s trying to make you do something for him? The man has girlfriends, boyfriends, he’s not the man you want to hang out with.”

 

The words are like swift, stinging slaps to his face.

 

That’s cheap gossip, Chris tells himself, just cheap gossip, he shouldn’t listen to this, but curiosity gnaws at his already confused senses.

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“People who know him from the streets. Some fellow inmates. People know this guy. He’s not an entirely elusive figure.”

 

Like a first-year officer, one who has seen nothing in his life, Chris sits wordless at his chair.

 

His thoughts are a ravenous roller coaster.

 

“Go back to your family Chris. Forget about that guy. He’s gone. He wanted to get out of here, he asked this from me personally.”

 

“Go home and call me if you need anything else. I’m available for you at any time.”

  
  


\------------

  
  


The walk home requires more effort than it usually does.

 

Chris walks slowly. Even slower than usual.

 

He enters his home with a sigh, skips dinner and heads straight to the shower instead.

 

The shirt he’d worn yesterday for his supposed encounter with Tom is tossed on the floor.

 

He snatches a bottle of cool beer afterwards, and sits down on his couch, once again ending his day with a quiet stare at the wall.

 

What has happened. 

 

What did just happen.

 

How did I let him come close to me, Chris swallows through a thick throat. 

 

His whole body is hurting.

 

He’s a con, a fucking con, Chris mutters into his palm.

 

He grabs his beer and takes a large sip from it, as if he’s enjoying it, as if he’s the king of his house, but he’s not.

 

_ Girlfriends, boyfriends,  _ if these stories are true - then let Tom have them all.

 

“Fuck it, fuck all of it,” Chris grits and turns on the television, hoping to distract himself, but shuts it back down moments later, as it’s all meaningless.

 

He buries his face in his palms, yearning to be able to simply leave the lonely apartment and head downstairs for a jog.

 

Where is Tom now? Why did he leave like this?

 

What made him change his mind? Or was he fooling Chris this whole time?

 

.

Memories return to him, of being lied to, about being cheated, then being lied to again.

 

“I can’t do this,” he breathes through his fingers. “I can’t handle being tossed away once again,” he mutters, and says nothing more.

  
  
  


Chris is not the nice guy Tom thought he was.

  
  


\---------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings - 
> 
> This chapter is more intense than previous chapters in terms of harsh human behavior, language, dialogues, and emotions the characters are going through.  
> In addition, you'll find some hints of homophobia in this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, below is the new chapter. 
> 
> Warnings for this one - hmm, none :) And I know nutting about the law system, the court of law, yada yada. Apologies in advance for my inaccuracies.
> 
> Have fun reading, I hope. Your pleasure is my pleasure.

The guard leads Tom into his new cell, and locks the door behind him after he leaves.

 

Tom places his bag on the floor, and sits down on one of the two small beds in the cell, rubbing his reddened wrists. His hands had been uselessly cuffed for hours.

 

They’ve told him he’s going the reside alone in this cell for now, which is perhaps the best news he’d received today.

 

Tom lowers his head to his palms, fatigue slowing his senses. 

 

Humiliation and anger are restlessly gnawing at his insides. The memory of Mike’s face close to his, his voice, the scent of his breath are making Tom’s head hurt and his eyes fall tightly shut. 

 

Luckily, the evidence of his tears are no longer visible on his face, he made sure of it. 

 

He feels as small as an ant.

 

And he can’t wait for the day he gets out of here.

  
  


\--------

  
  


The day after tomorrow, Tom is to be questioned for the first time.

  
  


\------

  
  


For long, uncertain moments, Tom sits behind a grey desk, his gaze set at the jagged cracks that swarm through the old concrete ceiling.

 

When the door finally opens, two men and a woman enter the room, taking their places at the table opposite to him.

 

“Good afternoon,” the woman officer greets him and Tom greets her back with a nod, observing each of the trio as they settle into their seats.

“Mr. Hiddleston,” the woman begins, “It is said that you know quite a lot. Do you?”

 

“Ask me away, and we shall find out together,” Tom says without pause. Impatience is tickling the back of his mind already.

 

The two men are looking at him with eyebrows slightly raised, probably thinking him for a sham. But that’s ok.

 

“Well. In that case, I’d like to start with you telling us a little bit about safe breaking. I hear you are quite good at it.”

 

Tom crosses his legs, his palms folded neatly in his lap.

 

“You heard correct,” he says, his voice empty. Here we go.

 

The lady nods at him. 

 

From what Tom can tell, she looks rather appeased.

 

“Alright. Let’s talk then,” she says.

  
  


\--------

  
  


The questioning and investigations occur almost on a daily basis. They sprawl over hours and hours, with only a few short breaks for food and a hot drink - when Tom is lucky.

 

They talk about everyone. About Ravitz, Shane, and many more. Ace is mentioned too, though Tom winces internally each time he is.

 

Of all the people Tom had the notorious luck to meet, Ace had been the closest to be considered as Tom’s friend.

 

There is, however, one person Tom is the least inclined to discuss, one, as it turns out, whom the investigators are especially keen to talk about.

 

“I want to know about this man- Zig. Zigmond.”

 

Despite his efforts, the name still sends a chill through Tom’s chest.

 

“What would you like to know.”

 

“Did he shoot officer Chris Hemsworth?”

 

“He did.”

 

For a reason Tom cannot understand, his answer seems to ignite the trio’s curiosity. They watch him closely.

 

They had been aware of this fact before, Tom is absolutely sure of it.

 

“Why did he shoot him?” one of the male investigators asks, “To my understanding, Chris posed no direct threat to Zig in the crime scene.”

 

Tom lowers his gaze, contemplating this for a moment. The answer to this question brings up many memories.

 

If he could have it his way, he’d never speak about Zig again.

 

“I believe Zig shot him because he was- angry.” 

 

“Angry at Chris?”, “Angry at what?” the two male officers ask him at once.

 

Tom clicks his tongue. It’s not that.

 

“It’s not about whom or what. I - I wasn’t too fond of Zig. I had zero patience for him, and absolutely no interest in what he had to say. Most of the time, I’m sorry to say that now, I treated him like an imbecile.”

 

“And Chris- Chris was a complete stranger to us, and he was a cop - a fact that turned the situation a dozen times more sensitive. When he saw me patient with Chris, friendly, even, Zig probably felt- quite unhappy.” 

 

Tom remembers how indecently he’d treated Zig, how much venom had poured out of him at that time, and mentally kicks himself. 

 

The man was a nagging, mean idiot, but Tom should have been smarter about the issue.

 

The trio write their notes, after which one of the male investigators looks up at Tom.

 

“So- that’s it? Instead of running away from a hot crime scene with a fat bag of money, when Zig saw his not-so-nice boss talking to a cop he decides to shoot him and fall badly with the police?”

 

Tom inhales deeply, lips pursing with unease.

 

His fingers tremble when he remembers the outrageous words Zig had told him at the peak of that night, with Chris’s body lying bleeding on the grey pavement.

 

That scene shall remain with him forever.

 

“I think- I think that what threw Zig over the edge was -jealousy.”

 

“Please explain.”

 

“I suspect that somehow,” Tom takes a deep, uncomfortable breath, “despite the fact that I mistreated him, Zig liked me. More than just a- a friend.”

 

“I- I had no idea. He- he stood above Chris while he was bleeding, watching me treat him, and said those things to me, that he would have been good to me, that he would have bought me gifts, would have made me feel - beautiful,” Tom swallows with difficulty, it sounds horrible. 

 

“I never- I never suspected anything,” Tom mutters, partly to himself.

 

“When he saw Chris aiming his gun at me, and myself willingly surrendering the money and my own weapon while being amiable with Chris,- I think that Zig simply lost it.”

 

“It made him go mad with anger to see me being nice to a cop while calling him, my alleged friend, an idiot.”

 

There is silence after that. The three investigator gaze at him, Tom’s story probably robbing them of their words for a moment.

 

The lady investigator is the first to recover.

 

“Have you spoken to Zig since the shooting?”

 

“No.”

 

He hadn’t spoken, nor seen Zig ever since that night.

 

It makes Tom shift uncomfortably when he thinks about this. 

 

Unable to stop his mind from venturing, Tom wonders what that man is up to at the moment.

  
  
  


It is so, that for all Tom knows, Zig has never been caught.

  
  


\--------

  
  


The intensive questioning exhausts him, yet he gives away what he knows.

 

He speaks about his family, his past, his notorious colleagues, the meticulous skills that made him such an efficient little thief - all of it. Everything.

 

His father had told him a few years back, when he was still in his prime, that getting his revenge on those who deserve it shall make Tom feel quite good. Proud.

 

His father must have thought Tom for a little boy back then, for it is a child’s tale. 

 

He feels no satisfaction upon snitching about the people he ran his gigs with.

 

None, whatsoever.

  
  


\--------- 

  
  


One day, after the questioning is over, the lady of the trio investigators remains seated after her colleagues leave the room.

 

Tom sighs a subtly as he can, restless. He wants his break. He’s hungry. He’s thirsty.

 

“No coffee then?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“In a few moments,” the lady, Lindsay, tells him with a nod.

 

“There is one thing, one matter - that is rather unclear to me.”

 

Tom gathers his patience. Lindsay is one of the good guys around here, he’d come to learn.

 

“Ask away then.”

 

Lindsay observes him, licking her lips as she chooses her next words.

 

“You did not want to get caught, am I right?”

 

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

 

“Let me explain. You didn’t like doing crime -  I understand that. You weren’t too fond of the people you worked with - that I can also relate to. It seems that indeed you were hoping to slip out of the crime world, - and yet - you did not want to get caught by the police. Am I correct?”

 

“I suppose you are, yeah,” Tom says carefully. He can’t really see where she’s going with this.

 

“Then tell me,” Lindsay leans her elbows on the table, entirely attentive, “why did you help Chris. Why did you stay with him at the crime scene instead of running away, making yourself a sure catch.”

 

Tom’s presses his tongue to his teeth upon hearing Chris’s name.

 

“You wanted to help him - that is acceptable, and yet - you could have made sure his wound was stable, - and slip away. You could have fled once you heard the sirens of the police vehicles approaching, but you stayed with him.”

 

“Tell me why.”

 

Tom stares at her, supposedly indifferent, yet his mind is wildly shying away from the question.

 

Lindsay leans over the table. 

 

“I need to know this Tom. What made you stay at the crime scene. Did Chris offer you some kind of benefits? Did he suggest to take money from you in exchange for a favor? Did he promise you an easy escape from Prison? Help in court?”

 

Tom blinks, absolutely not expecting this line of questioning.

 

“Money? As in- a bribe?” Tom huffs a laugh at the officer.

 

“Have you ever met Chris?” he asks her, incredulous. 

 

“The man is like the local sheriff's loyal hound, sniffing the streets for the first chance to grab some old lady’s arm and help her cross the street, carry her bags home, then dutifully refuse her milk and cookies. He probably can’t bloody help himself,” Tom says in a rush.

 

“No,” he summarises, somewhat breathless, “he offered me nothing and wanted to take nothing from me.”

 

Lindsay looks at him, holding back an amused smile.

 

“Then tell me why.”

 

Tom shakes his head, exhaling soundly. Refusing to reply shall only make her further suspicious.

 

Obviously, he’s not very eager to share this private information, but more than anything, he’s afraid that Lindsay or someone else might use it against him. 

 

Or Chris.

 

He must choose his words with care.

 

“That Chris was worth staying with - is probably the best explanation I can give you.”

 

“You know I can’t accept that as an answer,” Lindsay says, and Tom clicks his tongue.

 

“It is exactly that, though. If you’re looking for a short, practical answer - I don’t have one.”

 

“Just give me what you have then. We’ll see where we go from there.”

 

Tom crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. Fine.

 

“The first time I met Chris, was in a middle of a gig. I was holding a gun to his partner’s head, about to steal some other people’s money.”

 

“That edgy afternoon could have ended in various unfortunate ways, with blood on the floor, but Chris had chosen to save his so-called partner by letting me take him captive instead. He kept me calm by doing so, which allowed me to keep my boys calm as well, and the bottom line is - not a single hostage got hurt that day, probably because of him.”

 

Tom takes a deep breath, brows furrowing as he remembers.

 

“And amidst all that bravery and helping the community- Chris may not have been kind to me - but he was - respectful. He used zero violence with me. He did not insult me, did not belittle me - not even once.”

 

“He was being, to put it very simply - a good cop. Protecting the law and the citizens, including myself, just as he is supposed to.”

 

Tom crosses his arms over his chest. He thinks about the last time he’d met Chris, about the precious, fragile truce they’d achieved, and he wants to bury his face in his hands. 

 

The things Chris must have thought about him when he’d learned Tom left without a word.

 

“What he did for his partner, whom he doesn’t even like, no one has ever done for me, and the truth is I can’t think of anyone in this world besides my own keen whom I will put my neck on the line for.”  

 

Tom takes a deep breath, fingers absently fondling the hem of his shirt. 

 

“I did not want him to get hurt,” he says quietly.

 

“He was a good, brave man, while I was spending my life with notorious men and women who were willing to harm others and steal their property as they were too scared or too lazy to make a proper living. I’ve known it for years, but Chris showed me a very bright picture of just what an utter shit I’ve become.”

 

“Seeing him bleeding on the pavement - was simply the last straw. It broke me.”

 

“I wanted to help him. I preferred staying with him and letting the police get to me rather than going back to that decaying den of impotent idiots.”

 

Tom goes quiet after that, and for a while, so does Lindsay. Her expression is a mixture of interest and concern.

 

“You see,” he says slowly, “the other prison I was facing, of being subjected to work with these people, to be friendly with them, to constantly protect myself from their menace - is worse than this one. I can assure you that.”

 

Lindsay stares at him, looking rather overwhelmed. Tom mentally kicks himself. 

 

He said too much. He promised himself he wouldn’t, but he did. He’s an idiot.

 

Lindsay clears her throat, then scribbles additional notes to herself, until she lifts her eyes from her papers back to Tom.

 

“I heard you specifically asked for Chris to question you after you were caught.” 

 

“Have you had any contact with him since then?”

 

Tom looks at her. That’s too much. She’s getting too close.

 

“Please don’t make me answer that,” he pleads. 

 

“I’ve never discussed anything related to money or any sort of benefits with him. That is the truth. He’s innocent,” Tom tells her, “Chris is a good man.”

 

“And me,” Tom swallows, feeling tired.

 

“I’m trying to be good as well.”

  
  


\-------------------

  
  


Thankfully, Lindsay leaves him at that. 

 

Tom finally get his coffee break.

  
  
  


\-------@@@@@--------

  
  
  


Chris’s life continues as if nothing of significance has occurred.

 

He goes to work, and does what he must. In the evenings, as a part of his exercise routine which he maintains reverently, he walks home from work by foot. Every single day.

He meets Doctor McCullough once in a few days, but never once asks her about Tom. In his heart, Chris knows that she will have no answers for him.

 

He works hard, exercise hard, gives all he has to give to his children, and drops on his bed at nights, exhausted, ending up sleeping like the dead. Good. 

 

There is this sense of hollowness, of failure, that haunts him, especially when he wakes up in the mornings and when he lays his head on the pillow at night, but he refuses to dwell on it. Time shall heal everything, just as it did before. He pushes everything aside, and forces himself to focus on living his life regularly, with no side glances to the unknown.

 

His life had changed overnight, first with the gunshot, and then continued to unfold unexpectedly with Tom, in stealth, beneath Chris’s radar of conscious.

 

He must get back on his feet and think straight.

 

He should find a nice girl and try to settle down again. Yes. That is a practical solution. He’s been telling himself that very same thing for ages.

  
  
  
  
  


Mostly, he just wishes he’d never met Tom to begin with.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  


But what happened to him?

 

Where is he now?

 

Could it be that Mike had somehow forced Tom to be transferred?

 

But it can’t be. More than a few people are usually involved in the process of a transfer of a prisoner, and forced transfers always draw more attention than the others. A prisoner with perfect discipline forced to be transferred is an interesting issue, bordering on juicy gossip, and words travel fast among the officers. Chris would have heard of such manipulation sooner than later.

 

Is it possible then that Tom had known about this and hid this information from Chris?

 

But why? Why would he do this? To put Chris to ridicule? To play a dangerous game with the law?

 

He thinks back to the very first time he’d met Tom until their last conversation, trying to recall any hidden clues for what was about to occur, but ends up with a headache each time he dives into the past. 

 

He feels pathetic.

 

“I need to forget about this,” Chris murmurs at the middle of the night.  He should go back to sleep. 

 

It hurts, it hurts that he’d let someone come close to him and be tossed away like a piece of paper a moment afterwards.

 

Whatever happened between them was short and meaningless. So they got a little close, and they kissed twice (and it felt great, really, it was great), so what? People come, people go, that’s just the fucking way things are.

 

He imagines himself shouting at Tom, confronting him for that awful ditch, telling Tom that he should never, ever mess with Chris’s mind like this again. 

 

But it only serves to disturb his sleep even further.

  
  


\-------@@@@@--------

  
  
  


After two months of intensive questioning, during an ordinary, tiring evening, a knock on the cell’s door wakes Tom from his slumber. 

 

“Hiddleston. Wake up.”

 

Tom squints his eyes open.

 

“Someone is here to see you. Get decent. You have ten minutes.”

 

Tom sits up in his bed, his body warm from sleep. Chris’s visit flashes in his mind’s eye but Tom closes his eyes and wills the thought away. It’s not him. 

 

Lindsay enters through the door.

 

“Hello,” She greets him, and Tom only nods, disappointed. He misses the warmth of his bed already.

 

“This is for you,” she hands Tom a single document.

 

Tom skims through the words, the webs of his sleep gradually fading away as he reads.

 

He looks at Lindsay, probably looking foolishly dumbstruck.

 

He is summoned to court. In two weeks time.

 

“Is this… Is this about my verdict?”

 

“Yes,” Lindsay answers, arms folded over her chest, “I wanted to hand it you in person so you can read it first.”

 

Tom looks at her, unprepared for this gesture of good will.

 

“You did very well during the questioning. We’ve almost completed our job - and so have you. And this-” she indicates the document, “is the compensation for your hard work. I urged the wheels to turn faster so you could get out of here sooner.”

 

“Thank you,” Tom says slowly. He can hardly believe what she’s saying.

 

“We’ll do well,” she says, touching Tom’s shoulder. 

 

“I have a feeling the judge will love you,” she says with a smile. 

  
  


\--------------------

  
  


The sky during the day of his trial is clear, as blue as one could wish for as Tom is lead to the court hall.

 

Next to his lawyer, Tom is seated on the defendant’s seat, a moment he shall remember forever. Being placed in the chair of the guilty.

 

There are a bit more than a dozen people present in the courtroom today. Two of them are Tom’s parents, who decided to show up despite his ferocious attempts to keep them far away from this occasion. 

His sisters, thankfully - respected his wishes and remained at their homes.

 

For a little less than an hour, a detailed discussion takes place - between Tom’s lawyer and the prosecution.  

 

Tom hardly listens to the ongoing conversation. He knows the details of his case by heart. 

 

He hasn’t eaten anything since last night, only being capable of drinking water.

 

His heart is constantly beating heavily in his chest. He wants to so much to go home, daring to dream of his actual, personal bed welcoming him at night.

 

He is shaken out of his fantasies when the judge asks the defendant to rise.

 

“Your honor, “ Tom gets on his feet.

 

The judge takes Tom’s figure, quiet and thoughtful.

 

“Mr. HIddleston. You are charged with armed robbery, theft, and threatening a police officer with a weapon. Do you concede with those deeds?”

 

“I do, your honor.”

 

“I see. Do you find regret within yourself?”

 

“I do your honor. I wish I could personally apologize to each and every person I stole from.”

 

“Hmm. That is kind of you. But that won’t bring them back their stolen goods, will it now.”

 

Tom’s cheeks are aflame at once. Instinctively, he lowers gaze.

 

“I suppose it won’t, your honor.”

 

The judge hums, his low voice a strange echo surrounding the courtroom.

 

“I hear that you have turned a state witness, and have delivered various testimonies dutifully, as required.”

 

“I hope I did, your honor,” Tom replies, more careful with his words now.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Once again, the judge observes Tom, forehead creased in a hinted displeasure Tom cannot explain. His jaws begin to slowly gnaw against each other.

 

_ Let me go home. _

 

“It saddens me every single time to see young, capable, skillful men and women turn to crime instead of investing their time in building good, solid life.”

 

“What is it that draws young, ripe minds into so-called easy money?”

 

Tom flushes again, embarrassed to his core for the rest of his days perhaps. Bloody hell.

 

“I do not know, sir,” he mutters, though he does.

 

“Do you not,” the judge narrows his eyes at him, and Tom struggles to keep his gaze steady.

 

“Mr. Hiddleston. Despite your dutiful testimony,” the judge says, and Tom sucks in a breath.

 

“I am sorry to say that you are to be punished for your deeds. Every step we take holds a price to it, son. There are no shortcuts. No such thing as offense swept under the rug. Not in my court. I sentence you with a year,” the judge says and knocks his wooden hammer on the stand.

 

The words are said almost as a matter of factly, and the courtroom is quiet, so very quiet, Tom can practically hear the harsh tap of his heart within his chest.

 

“However, I am not blind. You are a far cry from a heavyweight criminal. You’ve already spent three months in captivity, and these shall be reduced from your sentence. You are left with nine months to spend behind bars.”

 

Tom’s hands are tightly fisted at his sides. He listens, body warm, urging himself to breathe as evenly as possible.

 

“I want you to sit, and think, of what you’ve done.”

 

The judge adjusts his glasses over his nose, lifting his cup for a slow sip of water.

 

“I also hear that you wish to study for an academic degree in economy and criminology. Is that true?”

 

“It is,” Tom answers with a rigid nod.

 

“Very well. Excellent. You are to spend your imprisonment in a facility which holds one of the best national libraries in our country. You’ll be granted access to it, and there you’ll find fabulous books about economy and society. Sit, study and pursue your education. Ponder your past deeds and leave them behind you.”

 

Tom narrows his eyes at the judge. The little fox within bares his teeth at the man, ready to pounce with his claws drawn.

 

He braces what is left of his pride and the strength to fight.

 

“Thank you, your honor.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


His mother hugs him close, telling him that it’s only a few months which shall pass eventually, but Tom has nothing to say to say in return.

 

He’d stupidly, innocently, hoped for an immediate release.

  
  


\------

  
  


Down the court hallway, as Tom is escorted by two guards, Lindsay runs up to him, her eyes large with disbelief.

 

“Tom,” she’s half breathless, “Tom, my god, Tom I’m sorry, so sorry.”

 

“I did not know this will happen, I thought, I thought that-”

 

“That he’ll let me go,” Tom says simply, bitterly. 

 

“My god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think that -oh,” she whimpers, running a hand through her hair.

 

“You did what you could Lindsay, it’s fine,” Tom says with a sigh. He’s too tired for this now.

 

“Oh, Tom. My god. I can't tell you enough how sorry I am. Is there some way I can help? Something I can do for you?” she shakes her head in frustration.

 

_ Tell him I miss him, thinking about him every day _ , Tom swallows thickly,  _ that I’m doing this for him. _

 

“No, no,” he shakes his head, wanting to walk away. He remembers what Mike had threatened him with, and shudders internally. The man might ruin this little bit Tom has achieved if he hears Tom had contacted Chris. 

 

He’s had enough for today. “You've done enough.”

 

She shakes her head in despair, and Tom takes a deep breath. She’s a good girl.

 

“Stop beating yourself Linds. You know what?” 

 

He gives her a long look, envying her for being able to go back to her home tonight.

 

“I probably deserve this,” Tom tells her in a low voice, not a hint of emotion in his voice.

 

“I’ll see you around,” he says with a nod, and lets the guards lead him away.

 

“I’ll make it up to you Tom,” Lindsay takes the first few steps with him, down the hall that leads to the third imprisonment wing.

 

“I’ll make it up to you.”

  
  
  


\----------------

  
  


And so, Tom is taken to serve his sentence.

  
  


\------------

  
  


The first few days are the harshest of all. Tom is angry, quietly begrudging within. He does what he must within the boundaries of the parison’s routine, constantly bashing at heart at the damned judge who decided to make a walking example out of him. 

 

At the end of two weeks, Tom tires of his anger. He decides to step away from his resentment for as long as he can, and goes to find to the guards, finally ready to use the privileges given to him.

 

He visits the library, his mind dazzled by the comforting silence floating between the bookshelves.

 

He studies.

 

He reads books about Economy, statistics, and baffling mathematical functions that describe human consumption habits that make him frown.

 

He thinks about his family, about walking in the woods freely, about running into old-time schoolmate in the street.

 

He thinks about taking Chris out on a date, watching a film together in the cinema, paying for their dinner later on, and hoping for a kiss afterwards.

 

As the stupid judge advised him, Tom finds himself wondering about his past deeds. 

  
  


He does not miss crime. Not one bit.

  
  


\--------------

  
  


And as his mom had predicted, time indeed passes. 

 

Even if slowly.

  
  


\--------------------

  
  


The day of his release is a complete contrast to the day Tom was given his verdict.

 

The sky is gray with heavy clouds hanging low, the air cold yet pleasant - tickling Tom’s nose as he marches to the prison main gate, wearing a simple attire with only a mid-size backpack hanging on his shoulder.

 

Thankfully, his family is not present this time, according to his request.

 

He catches a bus to town - and heads to his parents’ house.

 

He’s served his punishment. He did his time.

 

The countryside seen from the bus’s windows captures his attention entirely.  The green pastures spotted with wildflowers growing along the road - are absolutely gorgeous.

  
  


\-----------

  
  


His mum is in tears when he enters their apartment, and his father rises from his seat to kiss his forehead. 

 

He is to sleep to in his old bedroom in a small, single bed - but it doesn’t matter. Tom is content to be here.

 

He falls asleep early that evening, exhausted from the day’s happenings, but wakes up very early in the next morning, his thoughts giving him no rest. He must go. He can’t wait any longer.

 

“Tom? Sweetheart? Where are you going?”  his mum’s voice startles him out of his reverie just as he heads to the door. 

 

“I,-” he mumbles, unable to find a proper answer to that. Why is she awake at such an early hour?

 

“Mum, this is a private thing ok? I’ll be back later today, alright?”

 

His mom watches him for a moment, concern written over the lines of her face, but then - a small smile forms on her lips.

 

She steps closer to Tom and touches his arm. 

 

“Are you going to meet someone? Someone nice?”

 

Tom blinks at her, mouth held open as warm flush crawls up his cheeks. How the hell - How does she do that? 

 

But Tom’s silence only fuels his mom’s glee further. Realizing she’s right - her eyes glint with delight.

 

“Oh sweetheart, I’m so happy for you, this is absolutely wonderful! Oh, you go and have fun baby - You go and have fun.”

  
  


\-------

  
  


His mum begs him to wait for just a few moments, and jogs to the kitchen as she prepares a bag of sandwiches and fruits for Tom’s ride to town - so he won’t be hungry, not for a moment, god forbid.

 

He refuses at first, as she doesn’t need to bother - he tells her, but the woman won’t take no for an answer and pushes the bag into Tom’s backpack.

 

With a warm kiss to his cheek and tight, excited hug - mum sends Tom on his way to the big city.

  
  


\----------

  
  


The police station building looks exactly as it did the day Tom left it nine months ago.

 

A sharp urge to hide hits him lest he will be seen, but Tom dismisses it with a click to his tongue.

 

He’s served his punishment. He did his time.

 

Right now, at this very moment, he’s not a thief.

 

The hour is precisely four in the afternoon, and he locates a quiet, unnoticeable spot nearby he could linger in - and waits.

 

It’s a beautiful day, the sun gently warms Tom’s face, and Tom passes his time in silence as he watches the police station’s main gate while nibbling on his mum’s sandwiches, each of them tasting wonderful.

 

He watches closely for every person that walks out of the station’s main gate.

 

Around six o'clock, the gate opens, revealing a figure leaving the building, slowly descending the wide cement stairs.

 

Upon its sight, Tom’s heart bounces in his chest, catching his breath with a shiver.

 

Tom quickly collects his belongings and rises from his seat, eyes never leaving his object of interest.

 

Chris- Chris climbs down the stairs, one by one, then begins walking down the street, slow - but steady.

 

Any trace of limping is gone from his movements.

 

“What a champion,” Tom whispers.

 

Quietly, stealthily, Tom hurries to follow Chris’s path.

 

He walks behind Chris, quickening his steps to gradually close the gap between them, and slows down to match Chris’s pace when only a few good feet separate him from Chris.

 

Looking at Chris’s back, keeping the distance between them constant as they walk - Tom breathes deeply, all the words he’d prepared and thought about for weeks and months - lost on him as he faces the moment.

 

_ Will he even talk to me, does he have a bloody girlfriend by now,  _ he swallows past his fear and excitement.

 

When Chris enters a quieter street, probably nearing his home, Tom braces himself.

 

_ Now, now, it has to be now- don’t be afraid- _

 

He swallows thickly again, past the heavy lump in his throat, and searches for his voice.

 

“Chris,” Tom calls out. He can hardly believe he’s saying this name out loud, for an actual purpose this time.

 

Chris halts at once, and so does Tom. His body is set tight, as if ready for war.

 

Slowly, Chris turns around.

 

Tom’s heart is riding in his chest when Chris notices him.

 

His chest is buzzing, his hand clutching his backpack shoulder strand, probably making him looking like a nerdy sixteen-year-old.

 

“What-” Chris stares at him, his lips parted and his forehead creasing. 

 

“Is this a joke,” he mutters, his voice low, a warning.

 

“No,” Tom clutches his bag impossibly tighter.

 

Chris stands very still, rooted to the spot, and so is Tom.

 

“What are you doing here?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I came back for you.

  
  
  
  
  
  


\---------

  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all :) Below is the new chapter. Doing my best to update the story as frequently as possible.
> 
> Warnings - I believe the story's tags are covering what it takes.
> 
> Have fun. Your pleasure makes my heart sing.

Moments after the first rays of morning light burst through the window, Chris opens his eyes.

 

He leaves his bed, and heads the bathroom to attend his morning ablutions.

 

Over the course of the past few months, routine has taken him again.

 

He takes a warm shower, wears his clothes, and walks to kitchen to make his usual cup of coffee.

 

There are days when he thinks about that person who vanished, and there are days he doesn’t. 

 

Today, he does.

 

Near by his bed, Chris spots a dressing attire that appears unfamiliar at first. Once he recognizes it he picks it up from the floor and tosses it over to the laundry bin for later re-assessment.

 

The girl who owns it won’t be returning to visit here anytime soon. Like the rest of the women he’d met recently, he finds himself no more than remotely interested in seeing her again.

 

Chris had caught that particular girl giving an odd look to the scars at the left of his stomach, thus diminishing any trace of his will for intimacy with her.

 

There was once a person who pulled his strings differently, slowly but surely getting under Chris’s skin. Somehow, despite his intrusive questions and strange demeanor, that person had never once made Chris feel uncomfortable about his wounds. 

 

But he’s not here anymore, is he. 

  
  
  


He’d left without a word.

  
  
  


\-------------------------

  
  
  


Chris heads to the police station - by foot. He misses the days when he hopped into his car at the mornings and simply drove, but this has to be done. Time for physical activity is sparse, and he has to practice.  

 

And at work - he does what he must.

 

One of these days, Chris thinks as he packs his things at the end of the day, he’s gonna go to the beach, and try to swim again.

 

And he will ask for permission from bloody nobody.

  
  


\---------------

  
  


“Chris.”

 

He pauses, pulled out of his thoughts. 

 

He turns around, and sees a figure of a man standing a few feet from him. 

 

He blinks at the sight, his breath caught in his throat as he recognizes him immediately.

 

Chris’s heart punches his ribs, jolting like a violent cannonball. 

 

“Is this a joke,” is the first thing that comes to him, his voice hoarse.

 

“No,” Tom says, frozen at his spot as he looks at him warily.

 

“What are you doing here.”

 

“I’m here to see you,” Tom says with caution, hand clutching what appears to be his backpack.

 

_ To see you _ , Chris stares at Tom’s fragile presence. This is unbelievable. He looks around them, scanning their surroundings for something out of the ordinary. What… What is this?

 

“I’m entirely on my own, nobody knows I’m here,” Tom says, “I just want to talk.”

 

“Talk?” Chris breathes.

 

He doesn’t understand anything. He never does.

 

“Are you on the run?” he nearly hisses, praying that nobody else can overhear their conversation.

 

“Absolutely not,” Tom shakes his head, “my presence here is entirely legal.” 

 

“I came here alone, I carry no weapon-”, Tom gestures with his hands, “I’m asking for an opportunity to speak to you, that is all.”

 

Chris still stares at him, his mind a storm that did not exist a moment ago.

 

“Where have you been,” he asks stiffly, “why should I talk to you.”

 

Tom lifts his palms in a yielding gesture.

 

“I’ve been to prison,” he says slowly. “I’ve served my punishment. I’m here because I want to explain what had happened. I left the way I did because I had no other choice. It was either that - or staying in jail for the next twenty years.” 

 

“And you would not have waited for me,” Tom adds quietly, but Chris is not sure he heard correctly. He probably misheard him.

 

“Please Chris, just hear me out once.”

 

Chris takes a heavy breath, digesting Tom’s words. Tom had been to prison. He’d been somehow forced to leave the way he did. Ok.

 

He wipes his palm over his damp forehead. 

 

Images of the intimacy they’d shared in Tom’s cell flash in his mind’s eye, then of the evening he’d learned about Tom’s disappearance that came right afterwards. He has been wandering in the dark for months, haunted by anger and confusion. 

 

“I don’t know Tom,” Chris mutters, touching his brow. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

 

He’d been hurt. Sharp and raw. 

 

“Chris,” Tom takes a step forward, his face contorted with worry. For a moment, Chris thinks Tom looks as haunted as he is.

 

“I never wanted any of it to happen, I swear to you. And I will never commit crime again, not for as long as I’m alive.”

 

Tom swallows visibly, his chest rising in a deep breath.

 

“Look,” Tom’s touches his chest, his voice tight, ”It broke my fucking heart to disappear like that, ok?” 

 

“God knows I did everything I could to either transfer a message to you or finish my business there as soon as possible so I could come back.”

 

Tom pinches his nose, collecting himself.

 

“Please. Hear me out, just for a few minutes. We don’t have to go anywhere. I could just - walk you home, then leave you alone.”

 

Chris watches Tom speaking, practically transfixed.

 

They should let go of each other and forget everything that has ever happened between them, it will be for the best, but he can’t do it. He is incapable of sending Tom away. 

 

There’s finally a chance for him to hear Tom’s side of what had happened.

 

“I have documents with me, proofs - to show you that I am speaking the truth. It’s right here with me.”

 

Tom reaches into his bag, and draws a bundle of folded papers, and looks at Chris questionably.

 

When Chris continues to stare at him with no response, Tom takes a few cautious steps forward until he’s at an arm's length from Chris, and hands him the documents.

 

Chris blinks at the offered documents. He flicks his eyes over Tom’s face. Tom’s brown hair has grown, now almost reaching his ears. Wow.

 

He accepts the documents, and looks at them for long, quiet moments.

 

It takes a while before his thoughts settle and allow him to read properly. The title is written in a bold caption, positioned right at the center of the letter.

  
  
  


_ A letter of release. _

  
  
  


\------------------

  
  
  


“How is this possible,” Chris mutters. “You- you’ve done your time. How can it be?”

 

Tom looks at him closely, observing Chris’s reaction.

 

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he says. “Will you talk to me?”

 

Chris inhales a shaky breath. He’s doing it again. He’s letting Tom come close to him. He’s the world’s biggest, dumbest sucker. The ditch of the decade.

 

“Fine, - alright,” he fumbles with his own thoughts.

 

“Let’s just uh, find um, a quiet place to talk.”

  
  


\---------------

  
  


They’ve taken a sideway, more secluded street to walk through.

 

Before he begins, Tom asks Chris to keep what is said between them.

 

“Just a few days before you came to visit me in my cell, I made a decision.” Tom says.

 

“I decided to become a state witness.”

 

Chris looks ahead as they walk, hands shoved into his pockets.

 

A state witness. His mind connects the dots in a flash. So that’s what happened. 

 

It’s like a piano just landed on his head right at the middle of the street.

 

“I’d pondered the option for years, but recent events had finally pushed me over the line to do it.”

 

Toms tells him a story. About who had helped him pull the right strings that made his transfer come to be and how. Mike’s name is mentioned once, twice, then again, and again, and again.

 

Tom’s story ends with him and Mike alone in Tom’s cell, settling down the final details, with Mike forbidding him from telling anyone about his transfer but Tom’s family, with a special emphasis on isolating Chris from every bit of information.

 

Two days later, on the very day Chris tried to visit Tom for the second time, on a very early morning hour, Tom was quietly taken away.

 

When Tom finishes talking, Chris finds himself frowning at the pavement, his right hand clenched into a fist. That old, dangerous weight coils in his belly again.

“Why did Mike not want you to talk to me?” he asks, his voice lower than intended.

 

They continue walking in silence. Tom weighs the question for moments, solemn and distant.

 

“I have my theory as for the reason for most of it, but I feel that this particular question - you’ll have to ask the man himself.”

  
  


\-----------

  
  


They are walking purposefully slowly. Tom tells him more about his imprisonment period, about the investigations, about his attempt to achieve an academic degree. He’s already started looking for a job.

 

Chris listens, and wonders.

If what Tom is saying is true, then Mike had blackmailed him, implicitly forcing Tom to be transferred by his alleged consent.

 

And Mike had kept this information from Chris. All of it.

 

Why. Why would he do such a thing. Why would he put all this thought and energy into sending Tom away without a word.

 

He has an impulse to search for Mike in person and demand explanations first thing tomorrow morning, or even call him this very night, but Chris forces himself to calm down.

 

He tries to obtain some more information about this matter, but Tom bites his lip, disinclined to reveal further details. 

 

Tom’s reluctance makes something sharp within him tick. He had willingly answered every question Chris has asked, up until now.

 

He will not corner Tom until he answers, however, and Chris decides to drop the issue.

  
  
  
  


For now. 

  
  


\---------

  
  


“Did you- did you wait for me outside the building?”

 

“I did.” 

 

“But- how did you know where to wait? How did you know how to find me?”

 

“You told me, remember?” Tom says with a small smile. “When you visited me in my cell - you told me that you walk home every day from work instead of taking the bus. I simply picked the most logical place to wait for you, and it worked.”

 

It only takes a moment for Chris to remember. That’s right. He did talk about that.

 

“I could have easily have a night shift. Or select a different gate to leave from.”

 

“Then I would have returned by tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow. Until I would have caught you.”

 

Oh.

 

Chris has nothing to say to that. He feels flush crawling up his neck, and fastens his jacket collar around his neck, hoping Tom did not catch any of it.

  
  


\------------

  
  


When they near Chris’s house, Chris’s fingertips start to prickle.

 

Where exactly is he going with this.

 

“Do you- have a place to stay?”

 

“I’m- staying at my parent’s house at the moment,” Tom says with some reverence.

 

“I have a flat of my own, but I felt I wanted some familiar company right now.”  

 

Tom takes a deep breath, looking ahead expressionlessly.

 

“Prison proved to be quite a lonely place.”

  
  


\-----------

  
  


When they stop in front of Chris’s building, Tom looks surprised.

 

“Oh,” he murmurs, looking at the building “I didn’t realize we’re already here.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the place,” Chris mutters under his breath.

 

The unsettling truth is that within the range of a little more than an hour, the thick bubble of anger that has surrounded him for months has shrunk considerably.

 

Tom bites his lip, letting out a small sigh.

 

“It is so good to see you Chris. I’ve- I’ve thought about this opportunity for months.”

 

He glances at the building again, licking his lips thoughtfully.

 

“I know a lot has happened, and I know we’ve just met after such a long time, but, but still - I would really love to see you again sometime soon.”

“We could - do anything you want. We could take a walk around the neighborhood, we could have a drink somewhere -”

 

“Or we could just- talk, if you like - if it’s too much for you right now.”

 

Chris looks at Tom as he speaks, quiet. His thoughts are following an ill-advised, certain path.

 

Really, if Tom is a magician, then Chris is that silly little rabbit he pulls out of his sleeve.

 

He takes a deep, slow breath.

 

“Would you like to come upstairs?” he mutters, unable to think of a better way to ask.

 

Tom lifts his gaze at once, clearly unprepared for Chris’s offer, and Chris evens out what he hopes is a calm look.

 

“Yes, of course I would,” he says, “I’d- I’d love to.”

 

“Alright,” Chris nods. Good. At least that went smoothly.

 

“Come on then.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


When they enter the apartment, Chris hurries to the living room, quickly collecting the kids’ toys from the floor.

 

“The kids were here yesterday,” he explains under his breath, stacking the toys into the large plastic box on the corner of the living room.

 

“Mornings are difficult, they leave a mess, you know how it is,” Chris says, then pauses. He frowns and purses his lips.

 

“Or perhaps you don’t, I don’t know now, do I,” Chris mutters to himself, clicking his tongue. “Forget it, I’m sorry.”

 

“No, I don’t know actually,” Tom says behind him, hanging his jacket next to the door, “but I hope I will, someday not too far away.”

 

So Tom is not a father. As he finishes clearing up the worst of the mess, Chris wonders if Tom has ever been married before.

 

“Are you hungry? There’s some food my mom sent me in the fridge, is that acceptable?”

 

Tom smiles at him.

 

“Sounds great. I’m in.”

 

They eat while sitting next to each other on the couch. Over their meal, Tom tells him a little more about the large, national library he’d been allowed into. He describes his visits there as the best times he’s had in jail.

 

When they are done, Tom leans back on the couch with a satisfied sigh.

 

“This was excellent. Probably the best homemade dinner I’ve had in a year. Tell your mom she’s undoubtedly gifted.”  

 

“Yeah, she’s great. She keeps my and the kids’ bellies warm and happy,” Chris says, taking the last sip of beer from his bottle and leans backwards to join Tom.

 

“You’re quite lucky,” Tom says, then-

 

“Do your kids come here a lot?”

 

“I would say so, yeah,” Chris thinks about this. 

“I wanted shared custody. They spend two to three nights here every week, and every second weekend,” he says.

 

“It’s not easy, what with my job and all, but it’s worth it, you know? To build my connection with them despite the fact that I and their mother are not living together anymore.”

 

To his right, Toms hums softly. 

 

“May I ask why did you separate from your ex-wife?”

 

That tears Chris from his thoughts. The only person who’d ever dared to ask him this question is his mother, who did it while his father was sitting in the living room holding a news paper up front, pretending not to be listening to their conversation. 

 

Chris had decided to tell her only the highlights of what had happened. He wasn’t strong enough to bare going into detail.

“You don’t have to answer, of course. It’s just that- you’re a good man,” Tom says, his forehead creasing thoughtfully,  “and it just boggles me. I honestly can’t see why she decided to leave you.”

 

Chris turns his head to look straight ahead.

 

Two years have passed. He believes he’s never told the full story to anyone yet, and he can’t think of any good reason why he should do so now.

 

When their divorce had taken place, the vast majority of the people who knew them, with Chris included, were practically dumbstruck by their decision to separate.

 

Chris doesn’t think about his divorce all that often, but only because it hurts too much to do so.

To say that time heals everything, is utter bullshit.

 

“Things had never gone by smoothly between us,” he begins, “but we married each other because I loved her, and she claimed to have loved me too. I also believed she would make a good mother, which proved to be correct when the time came.”

 

“She used to say that I wasn’t paying enough attention to her, that I was distant. It was probably true,” Chris says, idly looking at the floor. 

 

“We used to fight a lot, argue in bed at the middle of the night. We fought about nothing, about who cleaned the dishes today and who didn’t, and why I won’t quit my job so I’ll be home by five pm every day. It was horrible. I slowly drifted further and further away from her.”

 

“Things became increasingly tense as time went by. I felt - I felt odd at all times around her, but I told myself that it was nothing. That she and I were having a hard time - and it will pass. That we’ll find a way.” 

 

“One day,-” Chris swallows thickly, clearing his throat. “One day, my shift got unexpectedly aborted. It had never happened before,” Chris says, his forehead creasing solemnly. 

 

“I came back from work earlier than usual that evening- and she wasn’t at home. The kids were visiting her mother.” 

 

Chris licks his lip, his chest rising in a deep breath. “I remember myself sitting in front of our laptop, about to purchase online train tickets for some family trip we planned for the bloody zoo - and there, and I suddenly saw a dating site was showing in the browser, connected with my wife’s name.”

 

Chris blinks at the floor. He still cannot believe this had happened to him. To their family.

 

“My wife was looking for a boyfriend while we were still married. How humiliating is that.”

 

Chris steals a look at Tom, who is watching him wordlessly, his eyes slightly larger than usual.

 

“I confronted her that very night when she returned home. She denied everything at first, but by the end of that evening she broke down and admitted that she had been seeing someone else for a while.” 

 

Chris’s jaws gnaw against each other.

 

“I- I had my suspicions, I mean, I’m not stupid, or blind, but… I repressed them every time, not wanting to believe she’d actually go and do it. I had no idea how to deal with the whole topic at that time. I still don’t.”

 

“After that - I thought that we might try and stay together, try to fix our problems, but things changed drastically ever after I learned what has been happening. It was- it was stronger than me. Looking at her, being calm next to her - I couldn’t do any of it anymore. We called it quits a month later, and the rest is bad history.”

 

Chris bites his lip, dropping his head back on the couch.

 

“We were married for five years and seven months, and then it was over.”

 

A slight headache is prickling at the back of Chris’s head.

 

For moments, they are both silent. Nothing is audible but the gentle chirp of nocturnal animals running their affairs outside.

 

“Did she ever say why she did it?” Tom asks eventually.

 

“She wasn’t happy,” Chris says with a sigh. “She thought I was a pretty lousy husband. And a shitty father as well.”

 

Tom becomes quiet, and Chris turns his head to him.

 

“I told you I’m not the nice guy you think I am,” he tells him in a low voice.

 

Tom’s eyebrows crunch together disapprovingly.

 

“Now you’re just being an idiot.”

 

Chris watches Tom’s face, contemplating the way his dark brown locks of hair are softly tucked behind his ears. 

 

He presses his fingers into his eyes with a sigh, and moves to collect the dishes from the table.

 

“I’m gonna get these clean. Do you want anything else?”

 

“No, thank you,” Tom says lightly, and Chris stands up from the couch, heading to the kitchen with the dishes in hand.

 

He places the dirty dishes in the sink and begins washing them, sternly watching his work. Such a miserable story. Revealing all this extremely private, painful details, and to Tom of all the people, was most certainly unnecessary.

 

The very fact that Tom is present in his apartment is plain irresponsible.

 

Soon enough, Tom’s footsteps are heard as he leaves the living room.

 

Tom enters the kitchen, taking a few more tentative steps to stand next to Chris.

 

“What I mean is, you’re not to blame for what she did ”

 

“Well, she did what she did for a reason. She was unhappy - because of me,” Chris tells him, placing another cup into the drying stand.

 

“I was not a good husband to her.” 

 

“That justifies nothing. I get it - so you were far from the image of a perfect husband. If you were such a lousy partner, she could have told you so straight to your face, then walk through the door and leave. She would have gotten a divorce, then gotten together with her so-called manly man. However, she found another guy while still being with you. She betrayed your trust. That’s a whole different story.”

 

Chris says nothing. He continues to wash the dishes methodically, his sharper movements betraying his exasperation.

 

Why are they even discussing this? He hates this subject, he hates what his ex did, he hates all of it.

 

He had been loyal to his ex-wife. Always.

 

“And you’re not a shitty dad, I can promise you that.”

 

Chris shakes his head, huffing at his wet hands. He pauses his doings, and looks at Tom pointedly.

 

“What are you, some kind of an oracle? You have a crystal ball at home or something? You’ve never seen me with my kids, how do you know what I’m like with them?”

 

Tom looks straight into his eyes, leaning slightly closer to him.

 

“Have you ever met a bad father, Chris?”

 

“I believe I’ve met a few. Men who use raw violence on their children as they haven’t a clue how to control their anger, men who call their wives whores and bitches behind their backs - and sometimes in their faces too, men who use their children’s savings on gambling and filthy lap dances from nameless girls throughout the small hours of the night.”

 

“I’ve met a few nasty mothers too. Shall I tell you about them as well?”

 

Chris stares at him, the rest of the dishes forgotten in the sink.

 

“You may be naive, at times sloppy, even forgetful or emotionally distant - but you are not a shitty dad Chris. If not on anything else, trust me on this one.”

 

Chris exhales shakily, wiping his hands dry, dirty dishes forgotten. He leans over the marble, unable to concentrate on anything at hand anymore.

 

The kitchen falls entirely silent, and he inhales deeply, having no words to say.

 

Tom averts his gaze then, and looks at the fridge.

 

“Are these your little ones?”

 

Chris glances at the photograph. It was taken two weeks ago.

 

“Yeah.” His boy and his girl.

 

Tom slightly cocks his head at the photograph, inspects it once more, then turns to look at Chris.

 

“They look as beautiful and sweet as their father.”

Chris stares at him stupidly.

 

“Thank you,” he says, as bland as ever.

 

“You’re welcome.” 

 

They look at each other, and the air around them thickens at once.

 

Tom pushes himself from the marble towards him, and Chris’s heart bounces in his chest. Christ.

 

Tom lifts arm, smoothing small wrinkles down Chris’s shirt. 

 

Under his tentative touch, Chris’s chest rises and falls noticeably.

 

“You’ve done some remarkable job with your physique. You’re walking flawlessly,” Tom says quietly.

 

Chris’s heart flutters at the words. It’s true. He’s worked hard. Few people have noticed or realized the true significance of this, and fewer have come up to him with a kind word about it.

 

Tom touches his cheek, pushing the short hairs behind his ear. 

 

“And you’re considerably more beautiful than I remembered.”

 

Oh, Chris is horrible at accepting such flattery. He mutters another ‘thank you’ instead, his cheeks flushing hotly.

“You’re welcome,” Tom looks into his eyes.

 

“May I kiss you,” Tom murmurs, and after a slight hesitation and a lack of response from Chris, he leans over to kiss him.

 

It’s a soft, chaste kiss. A touch of lips. Chris’s belly coils around it.

 

“I’ve missed you,” he kisses Chris’s cheek, then finds his mouth.

 

It’s different this time. Tom parts his lips, and Chris is swept after him, letting their tongues meet and their bodies come close.

 

Chris’s arms find Tom’s waist, feeling for the sharp build of his hips. Tom is lean and muscular, having a man’s curves, and his mouth tastes wildly good.

 

Tom wraps his arms around his neck, presses closer, and Chris blood heats with the want of the inevitable.

 

His caresses Tom’s lower back, feeling for Tom’s spine through his shirt. He feels himself growing hard under his pants, and slows his movements. What is he doing.

 

Tom kisses his jaw, and drags his lips over to Chris’s neck, causing Chris to suck in a breath. Tom feels so warm and inviting, feels hundred times better than any woman he’d met as of late.

 

Chris’s hands slide downwards - pausing just above the curve of Tom’s behind, and draw Tom to him. He wants a taste of it, of the feel of Tom against his hardness.

 

Tom lets out a whimper, breaking their kiss to drop his head on Chris’s shoulder.

 

Chris moves his hips again, immersed in sensation, forgetting his injury, his difficulty, it’s all gone. He will hurt later. 

 

Tom moans again, shifting in Chris’s arms.

 

“Tom,” Chris mutters next to Tom’s ear, trying to gather his wits. “What are we doing.”

 

Tom pauses, momentarily silent.

 

“What I was hoping would happen a year ago,” he murmurs against Chris’s shoulder. 

 

“Do you want to stop?” 

 

Chris stares at the wall, attempting to think rationally, Tom’s breath warm on his neck.

 

“Do you want me to leave?” Tom lifts his head to look at him.

 

“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

 

Chris drags his thumbs over Tom’s hip bones. He wants this. He’s thought about this.

 

“Don’t go,” he says and draws Tom to him, letting his fingers trace slip under his shirt to trace his skin. Tom kisses him, and his kiss, their hips pressed close, make Chris’s blood grow hot once more. 

 

Tom moves his hand down Chris’s lower belly to the hem of Chris’s jeans. He plays with the rough denim for a moment, then unbuttons the first button of Chris’s fly.

 

“What are you doing,” Chris murmurs.

 

“Should I stop,” Tom pauses to look at him through half-lidded eyes, “tell me to stop and I will,” but Chris is far too taken to say no.

Tom kisses his mouth, his chest, then lowers himself to kneel on the floor, positioning himself in front of Chris’s front.

 

Chris takes a sharp breath, arms reaching to grab the marble behind him. Tom is crazy. Absolutely mad.

 

Tom’s finishes unbuttoning his fly, then traces his fingers over Chris’s lower belly. He touches Chris’s hardness through his briefs, then pulls them down, freeing him.

 

Distantly, Chris wonders if Tom is comfortable kneeling on the floor like that.

 

Tom licks his lips, circles the base of Chris’s erection with his fingers, and takes the tip into his mouth.

 

Chris’s eyes fall shut at the sensation, a tight exhale escaping him. 

 

Tom takes him into his mouth, wrapping warm, wet lips around Chris’s length, and Chris frees his right hand to touch Tom’s head. He wants to, but he can’t think beyond this moment.

 

Tom begins moving his head up and down Chris’s erection, and Chris carefully touches his hair, braiding his fingers through Tom’s curls.

 

Chris breathes heavily, barely swallowing his moans when Tom rhythmically swallows more of him, tracing his fingers across Tom’s brow. There is some pressure on his lower back, it hurts a little, but it means dust right now.

 

“I’m close Tom,” Chris breathes, “If you won’t stop I’m going to,-”

 

“It’s fine,” Tom parts from him to kiss his hips, then returns to lick him, drawing a sharp hiss from Chris’s mouth.

 

Tom caresses Chris’s skin and maintains his ministrations without pause, clearly not intending to stop.

 

Realizing what is about to occur, Chris returns to caress Tom’s head with one hand and balancing himself on the marble with the other.

 

“This is so good, you’re so special,” he murmurs, senses lost as his muscles tense.

 

Chris shivers, then comes, flowing into Tom’s mouth, careful not to grip his head too forcefully as waves of pleasure take him.

 

His body gradually relaxes, and Chris opens his eyes, returning to self-awareness. Tom parts from him, and Chris quickly tucks himself back into his clothes, buttoning up his jeans.

 

Tom wipes his mouth, and Chris pulls him up, holding his arms as he stares at him.

 

“What did you do, huh?” Chris is still catching his breath, “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, ” Tom whispers, “I liked it, it was nice.”

 

Chris exhales soundly, a wave of emotion warming his belly. He touches Tom’s jaw and kisses his mouth. He draws him close and embraces him, hand caressing Tom’s back.

 

Tom places his hands loosely over Chris’s waist, resting his head on Chris’s shoulder.

 

“You smell so nice,” Tom murmurs, his voice muffled against Chris’s shirt.

 

“I’m so glad to see you.”

\--------------

  
  


“A little thirsty, actually,” Tom says when Chris releases their embrace, asking him if he’s alright again.

 

Chris is looking for a proper glass when suddenly his cell phone rings.

 

His ex-wife is calling.

 

“I,-” Chris stares at her name flashing on the screen, trying to think fast of what he should do. They just finished having-

 

“Go, go,” Tom tells him, “take it. I’ll manage from here.”

 

“This may take awhile, we need to-”

 

“It’s alright,” Tom reassures him, “I’ll be in the living room, resting on the couch.”

 

“Ok,” Chris says, growing nervous as he heads to the bedroom to take the call.

 

They discuss tomorrow’s arrangements for day care, then the weekend’s. He keeps his answers to the point, eager to finish their talk as soon as possible.

 

Just before they bid each other good night, his ex-wife hesitates.

 

“Is everything ok with you? You sound- hurried.”

 

Chris pauses at that.

 

She has rarely taken interest in his well being beyond the basic details since they had separated. With a rush, Chris wonders if she can feel it, feel that- something is happening.

 

Chris has met no one significant since their separation, and Tom is - different.

 

“I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

 

His ex-wife lets out an unsatisfied breath.

 

“Ok. Look, Chris, if you need some help with anything, you can call me, ok?”

 

“Ok, I will, thanks.”

 

“Bye.”

 

He ends the conversation, but remains to stand very still in his quiet room.

 

He shall never call her for help. Not unless the kids are in a need of her.

 

Never for his own sake.

 

Her betrayal had broken his heart.

  
  


\--------------

  
  


When he re-enters the living room, Tom is draped across the entire sofa, fast asleep, a forgotten cup of tea placed on the table, growing cold.

 

Chris looks at him for a moment, eyes roaming over Tom’s lean figure. Indeed, Tom is very handsome.

 

He covers Tom with a blanket, hovering his fingers over his forehead to check for fever - he does so with his kids at times, just in case, and when he feels Tom’s skin is normal to the touch, Chris lets Tom sleep.

  
  


\---------

  
  


When Chris finally manages to find the torn wire, Tom slits his eyes open.

 

Tom blinks at him, uncurls himself, and sits up on the sofa, shedding off the blanket Chris covered him with.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Almost eleven PM.”

 

“Ugh, god,” Tom wipes his palm over his face, stifling a yawn.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

 

“No need to apologize, you did nothing wrong,” Chris tells him, crunching his forehead when he re-connects the wire to the power source.

 

“What are you doing?” Tom watches him curiously.

 

“My girl dropped her doll from the window a few days ago and it smashed on the pavement. I’m trying to make it speak and sing again.”

 

“Ah. That’s nice.”

 

Chris hums under his breath. He feels Tom’s gaze on him as he manhandles the doll, but avoids it as he ponders the question he’s been considering while Tom was asleep.

 

“Would you like to stay for the night?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the doll.

 

He can practically hear Tom hesitating.

 

“I’m not sure I can.”

 

Chris pauses his doings. He was certain Tom would agree. Where else exactly is Tom needed right now, less than two days after he was released from jail? What can possibly prevent him from staying?

 

He places the doll on the table, annoyance diminishing his ability to concentrate.

 

“Do you have you someplace else you are required at? Someone else you are supposed to charm tomorrow? A man? A woman?”

 

Tom gives him a long look, and Chris catches himself. He didn’t mean to speak so sharply.

“Another man? No. And as for a woman-”

 

“What makes you think I fancy women to begin with?”

 

Chris evens Tom’s gaze. He would have taken his words back, but he can’t bare the thought of being Tom’s play a moment longer.

 

“I heard stories, while you were gone. That you have boyfriends, girlfriends.”

 

Tom’s eyebrows furrow close to each other.

 

“Who told you these things.”

 

Chris thinks about this for a moment. Mike.

 

Mike, whom had brutally pushed Tom out of the picture and worked hard to keep Chris out of the loop.

 

“Mike.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Well,” Tom says, licking his lips, “he was right in one thing. I do fancy women, in fact. But it changes nothing. I don’t have a girlfriend, nor a boyfriend - whatever you name it, and I won’t have any, for as long as you are a part of my life.”

 

“The reason I can’t stay is that I am summoned to give another testimony tomorrow. I have to report early in the morning. If I spend the night here, which I want very much by the way, I will most probably won’t make it in time to the police station, and that is highly undesired.”

 

Tom bows his head, running a hand through his hair.

 

“That man, that Mike, is dangerous. He’s behaving no better than those vile mob people I used to work with. You should think hard Chris, the hardest, when he comes in contact with you. He would ruin you should you stand in his way.”

 

While Tom speaks, Chris begins to realize why he had refused to talk about Mike before. This requires some further thinking, but eventually - he will know what he needs to know.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He was hurt and his mind malleable back in the time he’d heard these tales, and he swallowed them like a man who was thirsty for explanations. “I’m sorry for talking like this to you and implying anything inappropriate.”

 

“It’s fine. I’ve been preparing myself for much, much worse.”

 

They are silent then, and Chris takes a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. He glances at the clock- and makes a decision.

 

“It’s late. You should get your rest before tomorrow. Come on, I’ll take you back home to your folks.”

 

“What?” Tom looks at him sharply, “I- I didn’t mean that I have to leave right away.” 

 

“It’s late Tom. You won’t make it tomorrow,” Chris tells him, and Tom looks at the clock himself, not contradicting him. 

 

“My folks are living an hour drive from here,” he says.

 

“So?” Chris is already up on his feet, reaching for his jacket. “You’re not taking the bus, a taxi or whatever it is at the middle of the night. I’ll take you home.”

 

“Ok,” Tom murmurs, standing up from the couch uncertainty. With slow movements, he wears his own jacket.

 

“I didn’t mean that I have to leave right away.”    
  


 

\---------

  
  


They drive in relative silence, with Tom telling the occasional joke about himself staying at his parents’ house. Tom won’t admit it, but Chris believes he’s rather embarrassed about himself lodging with his parents right now.

 

His humor subsides, however, when they near his parents’ neighborhood.

 

“So,” Tom says.

 

“Can I call you sometime?”

 

Chris ponders about this for a moment.

 

“Only if you promise not to disappear again.”

  
  


\-----------------

  
  


“Thank you,” Tom says when they stop next to his parents home.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been taken home before.”

 

“Well,” Chris smiles under his breath, “I hope you liked it.”

 

“I did.”

 

Tom’s hand finds his. He leans over, and turns Chris’s head for a kiss.

 

Tom opens his mouth, and lets his tongue invade Chris’s mouth.

 

It’s a slow, sensual kiss. Tom kisses him deeply, palm sliding up and down Chris’s chest, hovering above the hem of his jeans.

 

Chris breathes deeply, his body quickly warming again.

 

He thinks about what they’d done tonight, thinks about moving to the back seat and ending their business there, quick and to the point, but keeps himself intact. Not like this. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting you go again,” Tom says against Chris’s neck.

 

“Go, get some proper rest,” Chris draws him to eye level.

 

“I’ll go, I’ll go.”

 

“Good night,” Tom kisses his mouth one more time, and Chris finds his wrist.

 

“Do what you need to do, but don’t do anything stupid. Go safe and return safely,” he tells him, looking into Tom’s eyes through the semi-darkness within the car.

 

“Just - be safe.”

 

“ I will,” Tom tells him.

 

“And I’m not going anywhere either.”

 

“Good,” Chris tells him with a small smile, though he doesn’t quite trust this claim yet.

 

“Good night Chris,” Tom touches Chris’s cheek.

 

“Good night Tom.”

  
  


\---------

  
  


Chris watches Tom as he walks away. Long moments pass until he finally starts his car and drives away.

 

Unbelievable. What has happened during the last few hours - is unbelievable.

 

He can hardly remember how the girl he’d dated two days ago looks like anymore.

  
  


\------------------

  
  


Tom enters his home and walks to his room as quietly as possible

He removes his jacket, drapes it on the chair, and heads to his closet.

 

The house is quiet but the occasional screech of wooden furniture.

 

With a shaky breath, it will take a while before he can think straight again, Tom starts unbuttoning his jeans,- when a knock on his door startles him.

 

“Tommy?”

 

“Mum?” he hisses, swearing as he hastily buttons up his fly.

 

“Can I come in?” his mum peeks her head from the door.

 

“Is everything ok?” he grumbles, but his annoyance is forgotten once his mom’s face comes into view. 

 

She’s elated to see him back home.

 

“It’s one am, you said you’ll be back by midnight. I heard you coming in and wanted to see how you’re doing,” she says. She’s been waiting for him to come back home. 

 

“How… how did it go?”

 

Tom turns to his closet again, pulling his shirt off and wearing some lighter t-shirt instead.

 

“It was ok mum, everything went fine.”

 

His mom leans on the writing desk nearby.

 

“Do I know her?”

 

Tom’s forehead crunches as he slowly folds his jacket, needlessly smoothing its wrinkles with his palm. He takes a deep, pensive breath.

 

“It’s not her,” he says as he places the folded shirt back into his closet, not facing his mother. “It’s a man. I was seeing a man today.”

 

She’d asked him once, not too many years ago, when would he finally settle down with a nice lady and have a family of his own.

 

“I’m not sure mum,” he’d told her quietly, avoiding her searching eyes, “I don’t know.”

 

Tom puts the folded shirt into his closes, then stands silent, not sure what to do next.

 

_ Please mom, please. Don’t break my heart. _

 

A gentle, warm hand touches his shoulder.

 

“All I want for you, Tom,” his mom says, “is that you’ll keep your distance from those awful people who deteriorated you into this awful prison, and lead a good, decent life.”

 

“If this man makes you happy, then he makes me happy.”

 

Tom releases the tight breath he’d been holding. He turns around to face his mom.

 

“Thanks mom,” he tells her with some difficulty, “I appreciate that.”

 

His mom smiles warmly at him, loosening the tight ball that has been weighing inside Tom’s belly. 

 

“I’m just so happy you have someone. You’ve been through so much.”

 

“Would you like to bring him for dinner?”

 

Tom blinks at her. Dinner?

 

“Mum, we’ve only- we’ve only just begun seeing each other, I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do,” Tom touches his neck with unease. 

 

HIs mom smiles again, then takes his jacket from the chair and puts it neatly back into the closet.

 

“Fine, fine, I’ll be patient. Just remember one thing sweetheart - Duty before beauty.”

 

Tom wrinkles his nose at her. He’s always had the tendency to behave like a boy when she’s around.

 

“What does that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means,” his mom looks at meaningfully, “that his kindness and liability should come before his good looks.”

 

Tom huffs a defensive chuckle.

 

“What if I tell you he’s all of those?”

 

“Then you should be quick about it and seal the deal, young man.”

 

Tom’s mouth falls open at that. What?

 

“Seal the deal?” His mum has lost it.

 

“Don’t play coy with me baby,” his mom picks up a few used pieces of clothes from the floor, folding them properly over Tom’s bed, “Cherish and cultivate him as if he’s a precious flower, then get him a nice gift and propose like a true gentleman.”

 

“You’ve gone mad mum.”

“I haven’t. You’re not a child anymore,” she says simply, clearing the dust from his writing desk with a small cloth she just found somewhere around the room.

 

“Bring him for dinner sweetheart,” she says, then rises on her toes to plant a swift kiss on Tom’s cheek.

 

“It’s a pleasure to have you here. I’m so happy for you.”

 

“Good night darling,” she smiles at Tom, and closes the door behind her.

 

Tom stares behind her as she leaves, his lips still parted in a small gape.

 

By the end of his mom’s five-minute visit, the room looks sparkling clean.

  
  


\-------------

  
  


At five am in the morning, when the sky is still dark, Tom wakes up from a bad dream. 

 

He can’t remember anything about it.

 

Sweat covering his forehead, Tom tries to fall asleep again, but to no avail. With a tired groan, he leaves his bed and turns to his morning routine.

 

While brushing his teeth, however, his dream suddenly returns to him.

 

He remembers himself running down a dark street. He was running away from something, he can’t quite remember what it was, all while the smell of money, the odor of old, used bills, was crawling up his nostrils, devouring his soul.

 

“Disgusting” Tom mutters, washing his hands under ice cold water.

 

Thankfully, nobody is awake this time as he leaves his parents’ house.

  
  


\----------------

  
  


The ride to the police station is long, and monotone. The roads are excessively packed today.

 

Tom watches the view throughout the entire time. Seeing the sideways greenery serves to calm him.

 

Seeing the police as he leaves the bus, however, only reminds him of his time in prison.

 

After a few minutes of waiting, Lindsay meets Tom in the hallway.

 

“How have you been Tom,” she shakes his hand with a smile. Tom is rather glad to see her.

 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we.”

 

“You’ll be fine Tom, you’ll be done before you know it. Facial recognition will be followed by a few minutes of questioning, and it’s done. You’ll be free to go.”

  
  


\--------------

  
  


Lindsay leads him through a grey hallway, and stops in front of a brown wooden door.

 

“This is it. Don’t worry, follow my instructions and everything will be over shortly,” she says with her usual smile, and opens the door, allowing Tom first into the room.

 

As soon as Tom steps inside though, a violent shiver grips him.

 

Seated casually behind a small table at the middle of the room, staring at him with a crooked, rotten smile, is Ravitz.

 

A needle-like throb shoots from the base of his spine to the back of his head. Tom’s heart freezes.

 

“Hello, rat.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone :)  
> Wow, finally I can post this. This chapter was... Well, it was not easy to write :)
> 
> I hope some of you are still out there to read this.
> 
> At the end of the chapter I left some warnings, however, they contain annoying spoilers.  
> This chapter is indeed intense in pretty much every aspect you can think about, but I do believe that most of us will be able to bear it. I don't write gore nor tragedies.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who left comments. I luv you :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Nick Cave ft. Warren Ellis - Song for Jesse (From The Assassination of Jesse James soundtrack)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUXgxHj4z5Q)

Silent, Tom follows Lindsay down the grey hall.

 

The quick, unnerving tap of Lindsay’s heels on the floor is a sharp contrast to the soothing time Tom spent with Chris only mere hours ago.

 

As Lindsay stops in front of a brown wooden door, Tom takes a deep, preparatory breath.

 

He can’t wait for the moment he leaves this place.

 

He tucks aside the memories with Chris and thickens his skin, boxing the better part of his soul away from what is about to occur.

  
  


\---------------

  
  


The door opens, and what Tom sees spins at him like a heavy wrecking ball. 

 

Seated in front of a green old table at the middle of the room - is Ravitz, who is staring at Tom with a crooked smile.

 

“Hello, rat.”

 

Tom is momentarily rooted to the spot, frozen.

 

“Tommy boy, so good to see your cute little face.”

 

“How have you been doing, huh? How does it feel to be walking around like a free man while your friends are breathing some shitty dungeon air?”

 

Beside him, Lindsay stiffens.

 

“That’s enough,” she says, voice amiss of all traces of the sympathy she has for Tom, “have a seat, Tom, please.”

 

Ravitz eyes Lindsay, his eyebrows rising approvingly.

 

“Absolutely ma’am, I apologize. Tell me what you want me to do,” Ravitz tells her with a wink, and Tom grits his teeth. The man’s show of innuendo is absolutely disgusting.

 

“Sit still and cooperate,” Lindsay tells him, and motions Tom to take his seat, which he does without a word. Not a sound has come out of his throat since he’d entered the room.

 

Lindsay takes the chair to Tom’s right.

 

“Do you recognize this man Tom?” 

 

“I do.”

 

Lindsay sorts through her documents. She had seen her share of inappropriate behavior, Tom is sure of it, but he can sense her discomfort nevertheless.

 

“Is this man’s name Rava Tzipper, also known as Ravitz?”

 

“It is.” 

 

“Ok, good,” Lindsay says. She turns her attention to Ravitz.

 

“Mr. Tzipper,-”

 

“Yes, my lady,” Ravitz interrupts her with another stupid smile.

 

“You may address me as Officer Harris,” she announces flatly. “Now, do you know this man,” she asks and indicates at Tom.

 

“Of course I do! This is Tommy, the littlest, filthiest, most cunning thief of our well-crafted club.”

 

Tom stares at him, as stern as a stone. This is how this goes then.

 

Fortunately or not, Lindsay ignores Ravitz’s infuriating display.

 

“Tom, has this man recruited you for at least two robbery operations?”

 

Tom licks his lips. Though he holds less than zero sentiments for Ravitz, this man manages to ruin every inch of calm within Tom’s soul.

 

“Yes.”

 

She asks Tom a few more questions, all of which he answers while fighting to keep a blank expression. Mostly, he succeeds.

 

Ravitz leans over the table, sporadically laughing and whistling as he listens to Tom’s replies. 

 

Ravitz may act like a silly, slow-thinking lout, yet his game-like behavior is naught but a thin mask covering just how deep the dark halls of his mind go.

 

“You can sing all you want Tommy boy. It will get you nowhere. You are what you’ve always been and always will be, and that is a sly, meaningless crook. That is you. It’s your stinking little destiny. You will die a dirty criminal, no matter how fast you run.”

 

“Stealing and lying are the only things you’re good at, remember that,” he adds slowly, twisting Tom’s insides further.

 

“That’s enough Rava, keep your comments to yourself,” Lindsay scoffs at Ravitz. She asks Tom another question then.

 

But Tom has lost his focus. He asks her to repeat it.

 

“Did you know that dogs eat foxes?” Tom can see Ravitz’s teeth as he smiles, “Even the small, ugly dogs that nobody likes. Did you know that?”

 

“This is your last warning Rava. Your behavior will bare consequences.”

 

Ravitz holds Tom’s eyes, his eyes glistening under the pale white light.

 

“My offer still stands Tommy. You remember it?” he says, and Tom’s tight belly makes another dangerous turn. His fingers are fisting his own arms.

 

“I could fix you the best runs in town.”

 

Tom presses his tongue to his teeth, a hiss falling out of his lips. That ugly, repulsive piece of scum.

 

“I’d rather spend my next decade in jail rather than running another gig with you.”

 

“Don’t answer him Tom,” Lindsay says, but her attempt is for naught.

 

Tom is hot with fury.

 

“You sure Tommy? Wouldn’t your old man just love a few spare dollars? And don’t you want to buy something nice for your special blue friend,” he utters the last words with the most rotten smile.

 

“Officer Harrison, did you know Little Tommy here is trying to get close to one of your officers? That he’s trying to make friends with him? Get between his legs hoping for some favor from the goddamn police.”

 

“Shut it,” Tom snaps at him, “Shut up.”

 

“Relax Tom,” Lindsay reaches for Tom’s arm, who almost shakes her hand off him.

 

“Hiddleston is the slyest, lowest man I’ve ever met in my life officer Harrison. Every word he says is a lie. He wants your money, he wants to bring all of you down, and he wants to get his way with that officer he thinks he saved.”

 

“Fuck you Ravitz, fuck you-”

 

“Enough, keep it together Tom,” Lindsay silences him with a tight squeeze to his arm, and draws her cellphone to her ear.

 

“That’s it buddy, you’ll regret this,” she informs Ravitz, and within seconds, another male officer enters the room, swiftly grabbing Ravitz by the arm and pulling him to his feet.

 

“You know how to find me Tommy,” Ravitz chuckles, “You tell me when you’re up for some more money. That’s what you want isn’t it? You want to buy that officer’s sweet ass with money, huh.”

 

He wrestles the officer to be able to send Tom a wink.

 

“I’ll be seeing you, darling,” Ravitz grins horribly, then he’s brutally pulled out of the room, the door getting slammed shut after him with a low thud, leaving behind a room deafeningly silent.

 

“Are you ok Tom?” Lindsay looks at him with concern. 

 

But Tom has absolutely nothing to say to her.

  
  


\-----------

  
  
  


Tersely quiet, Tom follows Lindsay out of the investigations room. He merely clears his throat as they leave the hall back into the main building.

 

“He’s deep in the mud Tom, don’t let him get to you,” she tells him when they near the station's main gate.

 

“What he said Lindsay,” Tom looks at the floor as he speaks, “it’s not true. I’m not lying to you, and I absolutely don’t want your money, or anything like that. I’m not looking for trouble.”

 

The rest of the things that scum Ravitz had said, Tom absolutely does not address, and hopes that Lindsay shall follow the hint.

 

“I know Tom, I know,” Lindsay touches Tom’s shoulder. 

 

She sighs in resignation when Tom does not respond to her attempt at comfort. He wants to thank her actually, but he can’t bring himself to do so right now.

 

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, same hour, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Tom mutters, his lips stretching thin.

 

They shake hands before he leaves, and though he tries to do better, Tom bids Lindsay a stiff, curt goodbye.

 

He drives back to his parents’ house in angry, tight silence.

 

His mother, too, is more than sad to see Tom distant and untalkative over dinner.

 

Tom makes a few phone calls afterwards, but people’s answers manage to annoy him within minutes, and he tosses his cellphone away. No one will hire him for a job anyway.

 

A dirty little ex-con.

 

He tries to study and go through his books, but his attempt is absolutely futile. His thoughts are dark and his stomach is heavy.

 

Eventually, Tom simply waits. He’d told himself he’d give it some time, allow things to sink and simmer, but his need is stupefying both his thoughts and body.

 

At one minute past five pm, Tom snatches his cellphone with a huff. He dials, and waits for an answer with bated breath.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Chris, it’s me,” Tom whispers for no reason, absently withering the hem of his shirt. He should have waited longer. 

 

But he couldn’t. 

 

“Hey, Tom, What -What’s up?”

 

“I’m good,” Tom licks his lips, “I’m fine. And you?”

 

“What? Uh, yeah, I was just about um, to finish my paperwork here. Is- everything ok?”

 

Tom smiles under his breath. Chris’s coyness is funny.

 

“Yeah, sure. Everything is good. Listen um, I uh,” Tom stumbles on his own words, tapping his fingers over his forehead. He’s sixteen again, sixteen and nervous, asking someone really special on a date. 

 

“Can I come over tonight?”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Chris fumbles a little further, telling Tom that if they want to do this he should leave the office right about now so he will be able to collect his kids from daycare - and that yeah, Tom should come over, no problem.

 

Tom is still smiling as he takes the cumbersome explanations in.

 

They end their conversation, and Tom exhales as calmly as possible, running a hand through his hair. 

 

It’s over. His encounter with Ravitz is over. 

 

He gets up from the bed and opens his closet, scratching his forehead and twisting his nose.

 

He has nothing nice to wear, damnit.

  
  


\-----------

  
  


The first time Tom truly lifts his eyes from the floor today is when this particular door opens, revealing Chris behind it.

 

“Hey,” Chris nods.

 

Tom stares at him for a moment. The sight of Chris, who’s wearing a casual set of a plain t-shirt and jeans while sporting a careless, post-shower damp hairdo is a powerful, vivid reminder that Tom is not a prisoner anymore.

 

“Come in,” Chris invites him inside.

 

“What’s up,” Tom hangs his jacket and turns to look at Chris, who is very, very beautiful today.

 

“How did it go?” Chris asks, looking at Tom expectantly, “the testimony? Was it ok?”

 

“It went fine,” Tom responds with a nod, “just fine.” 

 

Chris watches him, radiating with uncertainty.

 

“What is it?” Tom looks down at himself, praying he hasn’t worn his shirt upside down or pulled on some none matching socks on his rush to get here, “Do I look funny?”

 

“No, no, of course not,” Chris shakes his head, “I just wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

 

Well. 

 

Tom supposes he deserves it.

 

But it hurts to hear this coming from Chris nevertheless.

 

“Well, here I am,” he says, his belly fluttering with small bubbles. He takes a few cautious steps to Chris, close enough so he can reach out and touch his cheek.

 

“I’m sorry I barged in here on such short notice. You were busy at work, I know.”

 

“I wasn’t busy,” Chris says, entirely still under Tom’s touch. 

 

“I only do paperwork Tom,” Chris tells him, eyes flat, “That’s what I’m good for these days.”

 

“No,” Tom shakes his head, “they are all a bunch of oblivious idiots.“ 

 

“They don’t know whom and what they’re missing,” he runs his fingertips along Chris’s jaw.

 

Chris is looking at him with dark curiosity, and Tom steps forward, leaning closer to press his lips to Chris’s.

 

And he sighs into the contact. Sweet, precious relief dawns on him, and Tom is swept away with the sensation. All traces of anger and shame are put aside.

 

He kisses Chris again, harder, hungrier, and wraps his arms around his neck, pressing their bodies close. Tom’s heart is dense with need.

 

“Tom,” Chris manages between their kisses,“- are you hungry, would you like some dinner,-”

 

“Hmm, no,” Tom finds Chris’s lips again.

 

“Do you want something hot to drink,” Chris tries again, “It’s cold outside.” 

 

“No,” Tom smiles, brushing his nose over Chris’s cheek. He takes a deep breath, his belly warming.

 

“But- there’s something else I want.“ 

 

Chris pauses, and Tom tightens his arms around his neck.

 

“I want you to take me,” he whispers next to Chris’s ear.

 

Chris exhales sharply, sending more tingles down Tom’s spine.

 

“Would you like to?”

 

“Christ, Tom,” Chris mutters, swallowing thickly.

 

Tom parts from him, and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head.

 

Overwhelmed by Tom’s doings, Chris stares at him.

 

“I worked out for you while I was in jail,” Tom says as he folds his shirt and places it over the table nearby.

 

“I wanted to look good for you. To make you want this.”

 

Chris’s eyes are large and dark as they are set on Tom, making him flush, his body warming with blush under Chris’s heavy gaze. Tom presses close to him again, and kisses him, parting his lips for his tongue to taste him.

 

He grinds his hips, and a sharp hiss comes from Chris’s mouth. He grabs Tom’s waist, fingers digging into Tom’s sides.

 

“You want to finish this right here against the wall? Is that what you want?”

 

Tom takes a sharp breath, blinking at Chris.

 

He doesn’t want him to stop.

 

“Something is not right.”

 

“Tell me what’s going on. How did the testimony go.”

 

“Tell me Tom,” Chris squeezes his middle when Tom fails to answer.

 

“Tell you what,” Tom says with some fake nonchalance, “that it wasn’t a nice chat over coffee?”

 

“It was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

 

Chris’s forehead creases with disapproval. 

 

Tom draws him for a kiss, he wants Chris close, to escape from what happened, even if for a short while, but Chris averts his face and removes Tom’s arms from him. 

 

“This can’t be about us messing around with each other, you understand?” Chris looks into his eyes, holding Tom’s wrists.

 

“You disappeared for months, and now you come here like this,” he looks down at Tom’s bare torso, breathing heavily, “all secretive and,-”

 

“I don’t need a fuck buddy, ok?” 

 

“I’ve seen enough relationship bullshit to last me for a lifetime.”

 

A fuck buddy. Tom bites his lip. He can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening to burst.

 

“I’m not messing around with you,” he says in a small voice. 

 

“Then tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“Did they threaten you?,” Chris leans closer, “did they force you to talk?” 

 

“No, no-” Tom shakes his head. Damnit. Damn all of it.

 

“It was not a testimony,-”

 

“It was a confrontation.”

 

Further apprehension dawns over Chris’s features.

 

“They confronted you? Who was it?”

 

“Does it matter?” Tom averts his eyes. “It was horrible.”

 

Chris looks at him, his eyes hardening.

 

“Get a seat on the couch,” he gestures at the living room and backs away from Tom, a decision in his tone. “I’m getting you something to drink.”

 

Chris straightens his shirt, his eyes traveling down Tom’s chest. He wipes his palm over his damp forehead.

 

“And get your shirt back on,-” 

 

“I can’t talk to you like this.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Chris returns with two cups of drink, handing one to Tom as he sits across from him. 

 

Tom peers into the cup- and bites down a laugh.

 

Orange juice.

 

The man is like a bloody eight am morning fitness program.

 

“Tell me what happened, please. Who was it you confronted.”

 

Tom sighs in exasperation.

 

“Ravitz. It was Ravitz.”

 

“Ravitz?” Chris’s forehead crunches as he struggles to remember. “The one who used to recruit you?”

 

Tom nods in confirmation.

 

“What did he do. Did he threaten you?”

 

“Not really- no.”

 

“What then.”

 

“Oh god, Chris,” Tom pinches his eyes, dropping his head back on the couch.

 

“Ravitz did nothing that could harm me, nothing. What he did do - was saying that my destiny is to remain a shriveling crook for as long as I live.”

 

“He said - that lying and stealing are the only things I’m good at. And plenty more additional rubbish.” 

 

“I was idiot enough to let it get to me, that’s all. He made me feel this small and stupid-” Tom makes a little circle with his thumb and index finger. 

 

“I drove home, and I kept seeing myself punching his face, again and again and again,” he licks his lips. 

 

“I wanted to come here and just - be with you. I wanted to forget everything that happened. Forget what Ravitz said, forget that I’m living in my parents’ house without a job, forget that I’m a rat - forget all of it.”

 

Tom goes quiet and lifts his cup to his lips. His throat feels tight. He takes a long sip, though the juice is practically tasteless in his mouth, and places the cup back on the table.

 

He hears Chris taking a long breath next to him.

 

“Some people will say anything to weaken you Tom.”

 

“Yeah,” Tom smiles sardonically, “and they’re quite good at it.”

 

“But most of all,” Chris ignores his remark, “they will make you believe something that fits their interest.”

 

Hmm. Tom peers at him with curiosity.

 

“Ravitz knows you are not just one of his runner boys, and never have been. This man envies you, and he wants you to go down with him.” 

 

“I bet the fact that you’re on the outside side now, or that you talked about him to the police - bothers him the least.”

 

Tom’s forehead creases with doubt.

 

“What?”

 

Chris looks at him evenly.

 

“Cons break down and talk all the time Tom. This is not about your testimony. Not really.”

 

“You’ve changed Tom, and he hates it. You were deep in the same mud with him and the rest of the lot, and you’ve earned yourself a new beginning. Freedom. He can’t do that.”

 

“He’s miserable,” Chris says, “just like you used to be, only you had what it took to pull yourself out of there. That ruins him.”

 

Tom drums his fingers on the sofa. His cheeks are warm.

 

“You’re wrong. I mean nothing to Ravitz. What’s been going on with me doesn't bother him one bit.”

 

“You’re the one who’s wrong. And blind as well. Had he not cared about you, he would have simply sat there, not even bothering to make eye contact with you, maintaining his right for silence and denying everything you say. He would have ignored you as if you were air.”

 

“He wanted to hurt you. To keep you as miserable as he is, for as long as he can.”

 

Tom lifts his eyes to Chris’s.

 

What Chris is saying is - Tom is not sure how to name it.

 

He’s starting to think that Chris may not be that naive after all.

 

“Did someone tell you all of this? How did you come to know these things?”

 

“Nobody told me anything. I’ve seen people who would twist the reality and tell others anything - all to feel better about themselves.”

 

His ex-wife, Chris is talking about his ex-wife, the thought suddenly flashes in Tom’s mind. It’s her and what she did to him that has taught him to speak like this. Her, and Chris’s years in the streets, handling cons like Tom.

 

“Ravitz didn’t call you a thief for no reason. He wants you to stay one. Forever.”

 

Tom lowers his gaze, unsettled by the thought.

 

“And one more thing. You’re not a rat.”

 

“Yeah? How would you call it then?” Tom smiles bitterly.

 

“What you did, handing testimony about criminals, was committing your duty as a citizen.”

 

Tom snorts at the words, his lips twisting.

 

“You really believe that cliche?”

 

“People only call it a cliche because it’s easy to call it so. It’s a cliche because it’s the plain old, hard truth.”

 

“What you did was the right thing to do Tom.”

 

Tom wants to laugh, this is just too funny, but he can’t.

 

Civilian duty. 

 

Bloody hell.

 

“Are you afraid of him,” Chris suddenly asks.

 

“Of whom?” Tom raises a doubtful eyebrow, “of Ravitz?”

 

“Yes. That he will harm you,”

 

Tom presses his tongue to his teeth, shifting on the couch to stretch his neck.

 

“This is not about fear. I’ve considered stepping into the state testimony procedure for years. I pretty much knew how this would go.”

 

“I don’t think they’re going to come after me, not really.”

 

“How is that possible?” Chris asks, eyes glinting as he tries to decrunch Tom’s rather grand declaration.

 

Thoughtful looks good on him.

 

“I think I told you once that the whole crime world, at the end of the day - is just like any other commercial business we know - it needs to be profitable. It needs to earn money, and I was good at getting that money, and everyone knew that, including my former group’s enemies and competitors.”

 

“The ones sitting on the higher chairs are smooth, oily businessmen. Right now, when all of my past-so called friends are behind bars, those oily business guys are practically celebrating. And I have no doubt they know I am the one who’s been singing. They all knew I was thoroughly unhappy and that I would talk one day, including my own bosses,” Tom says thoughtfully, “but the amount of game I bought them was worth sitting on the fence and keeping me on a tight leash so I would maintain the cash flowing.”

 

Tom smiles to himself. A small, sad smile.

 

“Laughably, they are quite happy with what I did, probably rubbing their palms together with each arrest that happens. And what’s more, I’m pretty certain they will approach me one day, offering me to work with them, or rather try to convince me to testify even further in order to induce more arrests of people they don’t like.”

 

“I was an excellent thief. They won’t hurt me, if only for the slight chance I might get them some more money and kill more of their competition.”

 

“My testimonies wiped almost everyone off the streets,” Tom says, rolling his glass of juice between his fingers. 

 

Everyone but Zig. 

 

Tom blinks the thought away.

 

“You should know they won’t harm you as well. You and your children,” Tom finds Chris’s eyes. He wants him to know this. “I would have never approached you if I had thought otherwise.”

 

“Hurting a cop is a triple life sentence to the organization. Such a move will thoroughly piss off the system, and they will be haunted by blues forever. Without making too much mess, they may eat the whole cake. With the city wiped clean and the officials relatively calm, they may offer some nice bribe to the right people, who will allow them in return to work in peace.”

 

“It’s quite a story, huh,” Tom leers at Chris, who folded his palms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling for long moments.

 

“What about Mike,” Chris asks eventually, “Are you afraid of him?”

 

The sound of that name sends Tom’s stomach into a flip.

 

“What?” Tom asks too sharply. “Why should I be afraid of that lazy excuse for a cop?”

 

“I don’t know,” Chris tells him quietly, but not calmly. “You tell me.”

 

Tom stares at him, lips pressed tight.

 

“Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”

 

The very question hurts Tom as it is. “What does he have to do with all of this?”

 

“I’m not sure yet. You can tell me now, you can tell me tomorrow, or weeks from today, but eventually - I’ll know.”

 

Tom clicks his tongue, pinching his nose impatiently.

 

“Please tell me Tom. I want to understand what happened a year ago.”

 

“Well,” Tom taps his heel on the floor. He certainly did not plan to address this.

 

But Chris will not let go.

 

“Aside from blackmailing me in order to stop me from contacting you and telling you some twisted tales about me - the very morning he sent me to that other imprisonment complex, your precious Mike took me to an isolated parking lot where he cuffed my hands, shoved me into a car, warned me to never come near you again, then grabbed my neck and told me he’s not a  _ fucking faggot  _ like I am _. _ ”

 

Chris listens to him, sternly attentive.

 

“Did you give him a reason to do it? Did you provoke him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why. Why would he harass you like this.”

 

Tom takes a deep, slow breath.

 

How much should he say.

 

How would Chris react if he knew just how truly dangerous this situation might grow into, more treacherous than any of Tom’s past con friends’ bad intentions.

 

Mike is a man from the inside, with a direct reach to Chris, and his family.

 

“He didn’t like me talking to you. He did not like us talking to each other.”

 

Chris watches him with a stony expression.

 

“He should never, ever, come near you again.”

 

“And if he ever does, I would like to know about it.”

 

Tom bites his lip, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue.

 

_ Mike is attracted to you, he wants you for himself. _

 

“Why, what would you do if he did Chris, huh?”

 

Chris’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

 

“You’ll be messing with the wrong people, lose your job,” Tom says with a sigh.

 

“Isn’t he your boss or something? You should be very smart about this,” Tom pinches his eyes, peering sideways at Chris.

 

He’s painfully beautiful. They should be doing other things. Not this. 

 

“I’m not trying to be your sex buddy Chris.”

 

At first, Chris does not respond at all, his eyes uncompromisingly pensive.

 

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”

 

“I appreciate what you are saying, yet It’s not your fault,” Tom wipes his arm across his face.

 

Chris moves to sit next to him, causing the couch beneath Tom to shift.

 

Chris’s fingers come to his neck then, tracing down his skin, and Tom lets his eyes slip shut at the sensation.

 

“What happened with Mike - won’t happen again.”

 

They way Chris says this... Tom’s stomach flutters. 

 

“Is that you being protective?” he asks with a hint of a smile.

 

When Chris seems to genuinely consider the question, Tom laughs a little. He leans over - and kisses him. He’s so serious.

 

Chris is somewhat stiff at first, but eventually, his frame loosens. His hand slides under Tom’s shirt, trailing down to Tom’s lower back.

 

This is good, so preciously good. Tom breaks their kiss with a sigh.

 

“Do you want to take me,” he murmurs across Chris’s jaw. 

 

“I want you to.”

 

“What do you think,” Chris digs his fingers into Tom’s middle, and Tom moans against Chris’s cheek.

 

“And I don’t care he’s my boss Tom,-”

 

“I don’t care.”

  
  


\---------

  
  


Chris insists on clearing the coffee table before they move on.

 

“I didn’t have much time to organize things before you came, but I did change the sheets and everything,” Chris murmurs as they enter the bedroom.

 

He goes quiet when Tom removes his shirt for the second time tonight, shivering under the evening chill.

 

“Don’t worry, everything is fine,” Tom steps closer to him.

 

“Have you been with a man before?” he brings his palm to Chris’s chest.

 

“No,” Chris flushes, “Does it bother you?”

 

“Not at all,” Tom smiles under his breath. He’s thoroughly content to have it this way. “I simply wanted to know where we’re standing.”

 

“What about you? Have you been with-”

 

“I have,” Tom nods. “But they mean nothing compared to you,” he smooths his hand down Chris’s shirt.

 

With Chris’s eyes fixed on his bare torso, Tom pulls him for a sweet, short kiss. When he reaches for Chris’s shirt, however, Chris goes rigid under his arms.

 

He holds Tom’s wrists, stopping him.

 

“I have scars on my left lower stomach from the shooting. It’s not pretty,” he informs Tom.

 

Tom blinks at him.

 

“I know. I was there when it happened,” he says. “And it doesn’t bother me.”

 

A moment of uncertainty passes. Tom reaches for the hem of Chris’s shirt again, and pulls it over his head. This time, Chris allows it.

 

And It’s Tom’s turn to look. He’s been wondering, and- he takes a deep breath.

 

Chris is... gorgeous. 

 

He’s managed to keep his body so well fit after his injury. Amazing.

 

“You’re really beautiful,” Tom tells him, “so beautiful I should have brought a gift with me today.”

 

“A gift?” 

 

“Yeah, something nice. For you.”

 

“A gift for what,” Chris mutters, a ghost of a smile passes across his lips.

 

“Does it hurt?” Tom hovers his fingers above the marred skin along Chris’s side.

 

“Sometimes,” Chris says quietly. His mind is not at peace. Tom can practically see him contemplating, calculating.

 

“You should also know that we can only do this with you straddling me or- with you on your knees.” 

 

“Doing it otherwise puts too much pressure on my lower back, and I won’t make it.”

 

Chris takes a deep breath.

 

“With some exercise, things will change. But right now- I can’t do it.”

 

Overwhelmed, Tom stares at him, allowing Chris’s words to sink.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Chris-,” Tom shakes his head, momentarily speechless.

 

“I- it’s fine. Everything is fine,” Tom touches his chest, almost telling Chris he loves him just the way he is.

 

“Just tell me what to do,” he touches Chris’s face and draws him for a kiss. Their chests meet, bare-skinned, and Tom drowns at the contact he’d been yearning for during his grim nights in prison.

 

“Take me to your bed,” Tom breathes against Chris’s lips. 

 

Chris kneads Tom’s sides with a low hum, then reaches for his jeans. He unzips them, and along with them he loses his shorts as well, left bare naked. 

 

He watches Tom as he sits down on the bed, eyes dark.

 

“Come here,” he says, sending prickles through the small hairs on Tom’s nape.

 

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Tom removes his own clothes as well, and steps close until Chris’s hands come to his hips, drawing Tom down to his lap.

 

Tom straddles him, lowering his hips and closing his eyes at the sensation of them pressed close to each other. Chris is unmistakably hard, pressing against Tom’s backside.

 

Chris bucks against him in slow, measured movements, and Tom lets his forehead drop to Chris’s shoulder.

 

“You're so warm,” Chris runs his hands up and down Tom’s sides, “I was afraid we wouldn’t fit.” 

 

Chris runs his palm over his behind, his touch experimental, as if learning Tom’s form.

 

“Should I use protection?” Chris murmurs, pulling Tom back into focus.

 

“Do you want to?”

 

“I-, uh-” Chris looks confused.

 

“Because I’d rather feel you,” Tom clarifies.

 

Chris stares at him, lips slightly parted.

 

“You’re so different than my ex-wife.”

 

“She never spoke to me the way you do.”

 

That’s good. That's excellent.

 

“Good, I’m glad,” Tom smiles lightly.

 

“I will need some sort of lubricant, however.”

 

Chris pauses at that. Wordlessly, He reaches for the cabinet near the bed and comes up with a small flask at hand.

 

“I went to buy this right after you called today. I picked what appeared to be most suitable, but I wasn’t sure-”

 

“It’s fine,” Tom takes the flask, flushing. He would have taken care of this issue himself, but he’d been too upset on his way here to sort this out.

 

He pours some of the oil on his palm, and reaches backwards to apply it on himself, breathing deeply as he wills his body to relax. 

 

Chris, Tom is content to see, is watching him intently.

 

“I’d never thought we’d actually come down to do this, not really,” Chris says quietly.

 

Tom kisses his cheek, words lost on him, and balances himself on his knees for position.

 

Slowly, he lowers himself on Chris’s hardness, holding his breath against the initial burn.

 

Chris hisses, hands gripping Tom’s hips as Tom takes him in. He presses his teeth to Tom’s neck, moaning hotly over his skin.

 

“I would have let you do this to me the day I met you,” Tom says right below Chris’s ear, drawing another moan from Chris.

 

Tom grinds against him, arms circling Chris’s shoulders. He moves up and down, gradually settling into a slow, steady rhythm.

 

Chris is gazing at him again through foggy eyes, running his hands up and down Tom’s calves.

 

“You’re so pretty.” 

 

Oh. 

 

Tom is happy.

 

“Finally, a compliment,” he whispers, bucking against him just a little bit harder.

 

He reaches between them to take Chris’s hand, applies some of the oil onto it, and wraps Chris’s fingers around his own erection, moving them up and down his length.

 

“Like this,” Tom covers Chris’s fingers, moving them for just the right amount of pressure, right there-

Chris thrusts into him, a deep insistent thrust, - and Tom drops his head on Chris’s shoulder, body tightening with pleasure.

 

Chris continues to stroke him, and Tom hasn’t done this in a while - and this sweet little celebration will be over all too soon. 

 

“I’m close,” Tom drags his lips across Chris’s jaw, “I’m close.”

 

Tom guides Chris’s hand over his skin, leading the last strokes, holding his breath when his body tenses, imploding within.

 

“My sweet love, I’m so happy we’re doing this, just -so happy,” Tom rasps, and a wave of pure pleasure washes over him as he comes. He shudders, and Chris pulls him close, holding him throughout his climax.

Once the initial edge subsides, Tom eases into their embrace, immersing himself in Chris’s warmth. He drags his fingertips down Chris’s back, marveling on the now calmer sensation of Chris’s length inside him.

 

“How do you want to this to go,” he gently bites Chris’s shoulder, making him hiss. “Do you want my mouth, or- should I get on my knees?”

 

Chris pauses his movements, his silence giving away his thoughts. Tom smile at him.

 

“You want me on my knees, don’t you.”

 

Chris flushes a little, clearing his throat.

 

“I-  didn’t know if you’d agree.”  

 

“Is that what you want then?” Tom moves his hips a little, teasing him, “Tell me.” 

 

Chris takes a deep breath.

 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

Tom smiles at him, feeling triumphant. It’s been years since he’s done it this way, but with Chris - he wants this.

 

He settles down on the bed next to Chris, ordering his breaths as Chris positions himself behind him.

 

“You have beautiful, soft skin,” Chris murmurs, running his palms down Tom’s back to his waistline.

 

He holds Tom’s hips, and presses against Tom’s entrance, penetrating him in a slow, decisive stroke.

 

“God, Chris,” Tom drops his forehead to the mattress. 

 

Chris begins moving in a moderate pace, but soon his grip on Tom’s sides fastens, his thrusts accelerating, becoming shorter and quicker.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Tom whimpers against the sheets, “yeah, take me the way you want to.”

 

“Tom,” Chris hisses then, working his hips harder, deeper. The sensation of being held like this, whlie Chris is rocking into him, hard and good, - Tom is too lost to savor the moment.

 

“I’m nearly there,” Chris mutters, “you want me to stop, what do you want.”

 

“Don’t stop,” Tom moans between Chris’s thrusts, “just do it.”

 

“Give it to me,” he muffles into the sheets.

 

Chris lets out a low groan.

 

He holds Tom as he pushes into him with fierce, sharp thrusts, until he suddenly tenses, and bucks into Tom with final demanding, deep strokes. He moans low in his throat, stilling as he comes, releasing his essence into Tom.

 

For moments, he keeps his grip on Tom’s hips firm while Tom listens to his ragged breaths.

 

He parts from Tom eventually, and lies next to him on the bed. He throws his arm across his face.

 

“Everything ok?” Tom peers at him.

 

Chris is flushed with effort, terribly attractive, but Tom is not able to make out much of what he might be thinking.

 

“Was it good for you,” Chris turns his head to him, looking both contemplative and sleepy.

 

Tom furrows his eyebrows. 

 

“Of course it was,” he says.

 

“This will get better,” Chris says in a quiet voice. “I will get better.”

 

“What will?” Tom asks, truly perplexed.

 

“The sex. I’ll gain more strength - given some time, and I’ll get better. I’ll be able to do this any position you like.”

Tom shakes his head with a small sigh.

 

“It was good, I loved it,” he tries to reassure him, but Chris’s eyes are far with their intent.

 

There is not point in handling this right now.

 

Instead, Tom shifts closer experimentally, watching Chris’s response. 

 

After a slight hesitation, Chris extends his arm in a quiet invitation.

 

Content, Tom lays his head on Chris’s shoulder, and lets his eyes fall shut. 

 

He’s caressing Chris’s chest while Chris trails his fingers down Tom’s arm in a slow, soothing pace.

 

Oh. Right now, nothing can get better than this.

  
  
  


This is worth it. Everything that’s happened.

  
  
  


All of it.

  
  


\-----------

  
  
  
  


“You have another questioning tomorrow, right?” Chris asks him some time later.

 

Tom opens his eyes, cuddling a little closer to Chris.

 

“Yeah.” The question succeeds in bringing up some of the unpleasant thoughts from earlier.

 

“Does it upset you?” Chris asks, making Tom feel a little stupid.

 

“I’m not sure.” Who the hell knows whom he’s going to have to face tomorrow. 

 

“Would you like me to come and pick you up after you’re done? Take you home?”

 

“Would it ease some of the tension?”

 

Tom lifts his head from Chris’s shoulder.

 

“You’ll do that?”

 

“It’s my day off tomorrow. I’m bound to collect the kids from daycare at four, but prior to that - I’m free.”

 

Tom lets out a startled little chuckle. His heart does a happy little bounce in his chest.

 

“That - that would be great.”

 

“I’d love to.”

  
  
  


\---------------

  
  
  


The distant noise of running water pulls him awake from his slumber.

 

Tom opens his eyes. 

 

Chris is not in bed with him anymore, he realizes. He glances at his cell phone- and winces. It’s almost midnight.

 

Quickly, Tom collects his clothes and leaves the bedroom.

 

He wonders again about what Chris said about getting better as he walks through the hallway, and finds the man in question in the kitchen, washing some dishes in the sink.

 

“You should start heading home, don’t you,” Chris turns around to face him, drying his hands on a kitchen cloth.

 

Tom bites his lip unhappily.

 

“Well- I- not right now, but soon, yeah.”

 

“Okay,” Chris nods, “I’ll fix us something to eat so you won’t get too sleepy on your ride home,” he informs Tom, and turns to attend the fridge.

 

“And I’ll walk you to your car,” he says with his back to Tom, going through the food shelves.

 

Tom stands quiet at the kitchen entrance, hands shoved into his pockets.

 

How he wishes he could stay.

  
  


\--------------

  
  


They walk down the parking lot in silence.

When they stop next to Tom’s car, Tom runs a hand through his hair with a sigh.

 

“I’m so sorry I can’t stay. It’s horrible that I'm leaving like this right after we- ” 

 

“I’m not a little boy Tom. It’s not horrible.”

 

“Go home. Finish your business properly. Give me an hour head start before you’re done with the guys at the police station tomorrow, and I’ll get there. Alright?”

 

“Ok, alright,” Tom lowers his gaze, but Chris holds his arm for his attention.

 

“They’ll say anything to weaken you - remember that. You are what you think and only that, not what others say.”

 

Feeling bleak, Tom clicks his tongue impatiently. He wraps his arms around Chris’s neck and draws him for an embrace.

 

“I’ll miss you like a spoiled little baby.”

 

He can’t wait until he steps into Chris’s car tomorrow and be alone with him again.

 

“Thank you for worrying about me,” he mutters. He can’t recall anyone, except for his mum and dad perhaps, that went as far as giving him a ride home since he’d become an adult.

 

“Thank you.”

  
  


\---------

  
  


It’s a calm drive home, very unlike this afternoon's furious ride on his way here.

 

Memories from his shared time with Chris are flowing through Tom’s mind to the very moment he lays his head on the pillow at the high of night.

 

What can he do to make Chris more confident about himself.

 

And what sort of gift should he buy him, Tom wonders under the blankets. He falls asleep on a matter moments.

 

Chris is so sweet. What gift should Tom get for him. A nice wrist watch? 

 

A ring? 

 

Tom smiles into the pillow. His mum was totally right. He should go for it.

 

Maybe. Maybe a ring.

 

Yeah.

  
  
  


That would be wonderful.

  
  
  


\--------

  
  


The next day, Tom is shifting on his legs uncomfortably, hesitant before entering through the police station main gate.

 

“Who’s it gonna be today then,” Tom asks as he sees Lindsay walking down the hallway towards him.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you last time, I honestly didn’t know it was him until the very last minute and didn’t realize how explosive it would turn out,” Lindsay tells him sympathetically.

 

“It’s someone else today, however. If that makes you feel better.”  

 

“It’s fine Linds, it’s fine,” Tom turns to follow her. At least it’s not Ravitz’s face he has to see today.

 

Just like yesterday, they take the elevator down to the lower level, and walk through the same old, grey hallway.

 

When they halt in front of the investigations room Tom sat inside the day before, he prepares himself.

 

But once Lindsay opens the door, Tom exhales with instinctive relief.

 

The man who’s sitting behind the old table today is definitely not Ravitz. 

 

Light years from him.

 

Tom is indeed familiar with this man, but not closely enough.

 

And the first thing Tom is able to sense, even before he sits on the appointed chair, is that this man- is afraid. His fear is carried in the air like the scent of an injured prey’s blood.

 

The questioning is surprisingly short. It lasts just a little more than an hour.

 

This man, Benny, is not happy with his life. What more so, is that his eyes are not filled with hatred or revenge as he’s looking at Tom, but with yearning. Envy, even.

 

He’s not happy being a conman. He hates it just as Tom did.

 

His life is far from easy right now. Tom does not envy him in return.

 

Sadness is perhaps the last notion Tom has considered to go through today, yet that is exactly what he’s coming to feel as he rises from his chair to leave the room once they are finished.

 

“I understand what you’re going through,” Tom tells him quietly, without an ounce of sarcasm.

 

“Best of luck to you.”

 

Lindsay closes the door behind him, and Tom pinches his eyes, leaving the heavier emotions behind him, closed up in that room.

 

“So what are we in for now. When will I have the precious honor of being questioned or confronted with someone again.”

 

“Actually -  not too soon,” she nods positively as they take the elevator upstairs. “For now, nothing is set in store for you. Nothing for the following weeks.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yup,” she gives Tom a soft smile.

 

“Oh- ok,” Tm says with some reverence, too cautious to trust this piece of seemingly good news.

 

They talk a little further, when Lindsay asks a few more moments of Tom’s time.

 

“Are you heading home once we’re done in here?”

 

“Um, yes.”  _ Chris is waiting for me. _

 

“Ok, that’s good. Just - one more thing. There’s an officer waiting for you on the way out next to the main gate. I would like you to have a word with him please.”

 

“An officer?” Tom stiffens, “What the hell did I do?”

 

“Relax Tom, everything is fine,” Lindsay stifles a chuckle. “Please - he only needs you for a quick chat, alright?”

  
  
  


\-----------

  
  
  


A quick chat. With an officer. Brilliant. Just Brilliant.

 

Tom walks down the main hall, clicking his tongue anxiously as he spots for the man Lindsay just described to him.

 

The uniformed blue approaches him with a polite smile, reaching out to shake Tom’s hand.

 

Extremely hesitant, Tom takes the man’s offered hand. 

 

“Tom, Tom Hiddleston, is it?” 

 

“It is. With whom do I have the honor?” 

 

“I’m officer Powell,” the man’s handshake is quite firm. “How about we talk somewhere quieter?”

 

“Yes, alright,” Tom mutters tersely, following officer Powell to a side room.

 

Powell invites Tom to sit down, closing the door behind him.

 

“I’d like to know what this is about,” Tom clears his throat.

 

“Well - I’d like to offer you a job Tom.”

 

Tom frowns at the man. A what?

 

“A job?” he looks at him, thoroughly skeptical. 

 

“If this is some kind of a joke, I’m sorry to say I don’t find it funny at all.”

 

“No joke, Mr. HIddleston,” Powell looks at Tom meaningfully.

 

“A job?” Tom wonders again out loud. “As in- work with pay?”  

 

“Indeed.”

 

Tom pays him a long, doubtful look.

 

“What kind of a job.”

 

“Criminal profiling,” the officer nods, looking quite satisfied with himself.

 

Tom stares at him as if the man just fell from the outer bloody space.

 

“Criminal- profiling?”

 

Criminal profiling is, perhaps, the most fascinating, mysterious investigation tool ever utilized by the law enforcement authorities in modern era. 

 

“We’re assembling a new team, Lindsay and I. We’ve been searching for a proper candidate for months. You’ve lived with those people, you’ve worked with them, you saw them crash and burn and you saw them smoking cigars while sliding loads of money into their pockets.”

 

“Lindsay told me your investigations were practically gold mines. You’re clever, you’re smart, you’re one of the good guys, you’re acquiring relevant academic knowledge on the matter. You’re perfect for the job.”

 

_ You’re one of the good guys. _

 

Tom is speechless. Utterly speechless. Did Lindsay do this? 

 

“If you’re pulling my leg- then this is the time to call it off.”

 

“Nothing to call off. I’m serious Tom. I want you to think about it, give it some serious thought, this is quite a responsibility we’re talking about here,” the man hands Tom his name card.

 

“Call me when you’re ready to go into details.”

 

He rises from his chair and reaches for a hand shake again.

 

“I hope to hear from you soon Tom.”

 

“We want you on our team.”

  
  


\-------------

  
  


Tom exits the large building, nodding his goodbye to officer Powell who walked him to the station’s main gate. 

 

_ We want you on our team. _

 

His belly is making funny circles within.

 

A job. An actual job. As in - working with the police.

 

He wants to laugh at the whole thing, but the joke is a piece of reality too tantalizing to be taken as funny.

 

He observes the swirl of people walking down the busy street, drawing his cellphone as he descends the wide stairs back to the main road.

 

He dials a number he’s very delighted to finally have, he’s worked hard to get it, and waits.

 

“Hey, what’s up?”

 

“You would never believe what just happened.”

 

“Um, I’m- not sure. Something good?”

 

This time, Tom laughs.

 

“Actually - yeah. Something good. They offered me a job. A real, regular job.”

 

Chris needs a moment to recover.

 

“A job? The police folks offered you a job?”

 

“Can you believe that?”

 

Just as Tom was, Chris is overwhelmed with the information.

 

“Are you nearby?” Tom asks him, smiling warmly to himself, “would you come and pick me up?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure - I’m a half a block away. Walk a little further down the street and wait where I can see you. I’ll be there in minutes.”

 

“I will,” Tom smiles under his breath.

 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mutters, grinning when Chris murmurs something nice in return he cannot quite make out.

 

It’s done, the hard part is over. Tom exhales with relief. 

 

And Chris will be here soon.

  
  


He can’t wait to kiss him.

  
  


\-------@@--------

  
  
  


Just across the street, leaning on one of the thick, concrete pillars in some gray corner, where the older buildings meld into each other in a place nobody bothers to look at, a man is standing.

 

He’s been standing there since early morning. Waiting. Observing the crowd.

 

That man’s senses spring up as he captures Tom exiting the police station building.

 

He draws his cigarette from his mouth and tosses it on the floor, crunching it under his shoe.

 

Tom descends the stairs and begins walking down the street, and the man rises from his dusty seat, crossing the road to follow him.

  
  
  


Show time.

  
  


\--------------

  
  
  


Tom’s tries to spot Chris’s vehicle amongst the traffic to show up while a small, unmanageable smile is playing on his lips.

 

He walks past other people, pulling his jacket tighter around himself against the cool breeze. 

 

Tom does not realize it yet, but these moments of sweet pining and genuine glee are outstanding, as beautiful and fragile as a drop of water landing on the dry soil of the desert only to fade away mere moments later.

 

Come night, Tom shall endlessly ponder these fleeting points of delicate pleasure, trying hard to recall what that notion had been like.

 

He believes he sees a familiar vehicle approaching, and squints his eyes at the distance, attempting to make out Chris’s face-

 

But he gasps when a sudden weight falls on his shoulders. Tom sees a flicker of an arm cladded in a black sleeve - before he is ruthlessly drawn sideways and knocks with a foreign person’s body.

 

For a frackle of a second, Tom thinks it to be Chris, who is trying to pull a bad joke on him.

 

“Keep it down boss,” a hoarse voice tells him, “just walk with me. Walk and don’t stop.”

 

Instinctively, Tom works to throw the unfamiliar weight away, but the arm instantly tightens around his neck.  

 

“I said - keep it down boss.” 

 

“It’s just me Tom,” the male voice shifts closer to Tom’s ear, making his blood run cold. 

 

“You remember me, don’t you.”

 

Realization hits Tom.

 

“We go a long way back,” Zig says, his arm squeezing around Tom’s neck again. He pokes Tom’s ribs with something sharp, a knife, making Tom hiss.

 

“I don’t wanna use it, you understand?”

 

“What do you want Zig,” Tom grits, struggling to calm his hammering heart.

 

“I want us to talk boss, just talk to each other, like friends do.”

 

He unfastens his arm, but leaves it draped across Tom’s shoulder as they walk next to each other, as if trying to present an appearance of friendship between them to the near by pedestrians as they oddly march down the street.

“I heard some whispers boss, that you might show up today, and so I came.”

 

“It’s been so long, so long since we’ve last seen each other,” Zig says, his voice throwing Tom months back, to much, much darker times.

 

“Wow boss, just wow,-” he leans closer to Tom, close enough for Zig's body odor to crawl up Tom’s nostrils. 

 

“I’ve missed you.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Chris drives slowly, pulling up the car next to the curb. 

 

He looks across the busy road, searching for Tom’s figure amongst the crowd with a tingle in his stomach.

 

He’s forgotten what it’s like to be excited to meet someone.

 

When he spots him, Chris takes Tom’s form from head to toe, remembering their previous evening together. The things Tom had said to him, the noises he made. 

 

Chris has forgotten what sensuality looks and feels like as well.

 

He glances at his reflections in the front mirror, running his hand through his hair to keep it tamed.

 

He turns back to the window, and looks at the street again, -

 

Chris pauses. 

 

Tom is nowhere to be seen.

 

He squints his eyes, scanning the moving crowd back and forth. 

 

It is then that Tom’s figure reappears among the walking horde. 

 

But something is fundamentally different.

 

Tom is not alone. 

 

Someone- a man, is now walking along with Tom, his arm wrapped all too snugly around Tom’s neck.

 

A biting throb shoots down Chris’s spine. His hand fists onto the wheel.

 

The way the man is groping Tom, the frozen expression on Tom’s face and his taut posture moving as he walks- are unmistakable.

 

Chris’s chest churns with fire.

 

He wrenches his arm to the glove box, shoving the contents of the drawer to the car’s floor as he feels for his gun and beeper.

 

“Fuck, fuck!,” he snaps when his hand returns empty. He didn’t bring his weapon with him, he hasn’t had any use it for ages,-

 

He wipes his palm over his face, his hand now gripped with tremors.

 

_ What if he’s hurting him-, _

 

Chris groans into his palm. 

 

_ I’m going to get him, bare handed _ , his mind is a war of thoughts going out of control, furiously mustering a plan of action.

 

_ But I won’t make it, I can’t,  _ a different type of internal voice warns him, all while Chris’s mind knows exactly what he should do and how it should be done, making Chris feel he’s being shattered into pieces.

 

“I can’t fucking run, I won’t make it,” he mutters hoarsely, but his legs are tingling, restlessly tapping the floor with the desperate need to  _ chase.  _

 

“My back is killing me,” he grunts, but he’s already wrestling to unbuckle his seat belt -

 

And he opens the door.

 

He falls quiet once he slides out of the vehicle, the cool air hitting his face as he slams the door shut behind him and jogs down the road.

 

His breaths are coming out quick and short, loud in his ears as his instincts are taking over.

 

Everything comes back to him in a deafening flash. He’s the field-officer he’d once used to be in within a single suffocating moment.

 

His back is already stinging with effort, but Chris is dazzled with the sensation of his legs tapping the hard concrete. The days when somebody sat him down on a chair and made him stare at a computer screen are naught but a bad memory.

 

He blends in the walking crowd, and quickly dials a number in his cell phone. He presses the device to his ear as he jogs down the street, searching for Tom’s figure among the dozens of people surrounding him.

 

“Pick up the phone god dammit,” Chris swears under his breath, “take the bloody call.”

  
  


It’s as if not a single day has passed since the last time he’d done this.

  
  


\---------------

  
  


“Turn here boss,” Zig makes a sharp turn into an unrecognizable sideways alley, dragging Tom along with him.

 

For a while, Zig simply leads Tom through the gray old alleyway. He makes a turn and another one, rapidly navigating along the alley, his directions confident. He knows where he’s going.

 

Tom follows him in tight silence, doing his best to mesmerize their whereabouts as he struggles to think of a way to undo what is going on.

 

With no warning, when Zig suddenly decides their location is satisfactory, Zig halts their progress and shoves Tom with his back against the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs.

 

In a swift motion, Zig pulls what appears to be a pair of handcuffs from his back pockets. 

 

“Stand still now,” he says, and reaches to cuff Tom’s hands to some kind of metal pipe sticking out of the bricks wall behind them.

 

“Zig-” Tom stifles a gasp,- “you don’t need to do that.”

 

“I don’t want to cuff you, not really, but we both know you’re sneaky,” Zig grumbles as he works, making Tom bite his lip as his eyes fall tightly shut.

 

_ One beautiful night with Chris. At least I had that. _

 

But it’s not enough, he thinks painfully, his heart breaking into pieces, it’s not nearly enough.

 

“Do you want to know how I found you?” Zig holds Tom’s chin up, forcing Tom to look at him. 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom says, but Zig ignores him.

 

“I found you, because Ravitz told me you’d be here.”

 

That name sends a wave of nausea over him.

 

“I’ve been running under a low profile since I brought down that ugly cop-friend of yours,-”

 

Tom’s jaws gnaw against each other upon Chris’s mention, but keeps his gaze steady.

 

“But Ravitz got to me, and sent me a message, telling me some strange stuff about why our people were being cleared off the streets.”

 

“Do you know,” he presses his finger to Tom’s chest, “why I don’t have a gun with me other than this stupid knife here?”

 

He’s standing far too close, and Tom parts his lips as he tries to avoid the scent of Zig’s mouth at all costs.

 

“Because all of our ammo has been wiped off, confiscated by the cops,” Zig speaks slowly, emphasizing each word.

 

“As a result of your singing.”

 

Zig takes a deep breath, grabbing Tom’s collar as he looks into Tom’s eyes. Moments pass in terse silence.

 

“Did you sing about me, boss?”

 

“Look at me. Did you?” 

 

“What do you think,” Tom tells him quietly.

 

Zig swallows visibly, his grip on Tom’s collar tightening. He glares at Tom, his lips thinning into a white, firm line.

 

Tom braces himself for a hit, a punch to his jaw or a kick to his stomach, but none of it comes.

 

Zig remains deadly still. 

 

However, his shoulders gradually slump. His grip on Tom loosens.

 

The air between them changes into something Tom cannot name. There is a glint in Zig’s eyes that frightens him.

 

“I think we used to make a good team,” he says in a softer tone, “That’s what I think.”

 

The small hairs on Tom’s nape stand erected.

 

“Why Tom? Why did you do it?”

 

“If you hated Ravitz and Shane all that much, you could have just told me. I would have run away with you, we would have made a team of our own. We would have made good money. Just the two of us. It would have been good.”

 

Zig leans closer to him, looking at Tom meaningfully.

 

“I still have the money with me,” he whispers, his breath touching Tom’s nose. Tom barely conceals his wince.

 

“We can share it. We can run away. Right now. Just you and me.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

Tom stares at him, just barely keeping his wits straight. He does not know what to think.

 

“Zig,” Tom speaks to him as gently as he can. 

 

“We can’t run away.”

 

“Well, why the hell not?”

 

Tom inhales deeply. Zig’s behavior is entirely unpredictable. 

 

A mellowed truth is somewhat safer than a slippery road of a lie chased by another.

 

“I don’t want that money. I don’t think I ever did.”

 

Zig stares right back at him, his face unreadable.

 

“What does that mean, you don’t want money. It’s money Tom. It’s good life.”

 

The words burn Tom’s insides.

 

Everything comes back to him. The years lost on people such as this man in front of him, that unbearable, cruel thickness -

 

A disbelieving snort breaks out of his lips.

 

“We were stealing from other people Zig, for heaven’s sake, can’t you see that?”

 

“We were stealing the money they were saving for their children, for medicine, leaving others poor, do you realize that?”

 

Zig frowns at him, as if unprepared for this turn of things. What the hell was he thinking? That Tom has been singing for fun?

 

“Did he tell you that? Your cop-friend?”

 

Tom inhales slowly, imploring himself to maintain his calm.

 

“This has nothing to do with him,” he says carefully. 

 

“I simply couldn’t do it anymore.”

 

Zig continues to look at Tom for long, tense moments. 

 

Between them, the air continues to grow thicker.

 

“Ravitz wanted me to hurt you, but -I don’t want to.” 

 

“You know why by now, don’t you,” ZIg lowers his voice, his eyes set on Tom’s neck. He brushes his thumb over Tom’s jaw.

 

Tom’s stomach rolls on itself. Good god.

 

“I want to change your mind about us teaming up. Would you come with me? Someplace quiet?”

 

“Just for a few hours,” Zig squeezes his shoulder.

 

Tom breathes a tight, uncomfortable laugh. The situation must remain under control. 

 

He tries to shift a little, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs needling into his skin.

 

“Zig, come on-”

 

“Come on what?” Zig grins at him, “Come on let’s go? You’re in for it?”

 

“Zig, we are not- like that. You know that.”

 

“But we can try,” he says and touches Tom’s cheek, voice repulsively soft.

 

“Zig,” Tom jerks his face away. “Don’t do this please.” 

 

Zig lets out an unhappy sigh. He grabs Tom’s arms, and leans closer until his mouth is hovering right next to Tom’s ear.

 

“I get it. This is not the right place to talk about this. You’re uncomfortable, I’m uncomfortable, let’s just go somewhere else, ok? I have a hotel room waiting, where we can be alone.”

 

A hotel room?, Tom thinks with a shiver.

 

“I’ll un-cuff you, you don’t give me trouble, and we’ll just go on together. You won’t regret it Tom, I promise.”

 

He cups Tom’s face and bends his face towards him, aiming for a kiss.

 

“There’s nothing your cop friend can do that I can’t,” he whispers, and Tom closes his eyes.

 

He wishes he were somewhere else, gathered into someone else’s arms.

 

Tom feels Zig’s breath on his mouth- and it is then when it happens. 

 

A hustling shift comes from an unrecognizable source across the unpleasant scenery of the alleyway.

 

Tom holds his breath against Zig’s proximity and the suspicious movement, believing it to be some sort of a partner Zig had brought with him. 

 

“What’s wrong boss?” Zig furrows his eyebrows- but it’s too late. 

 

An arm wraps around Zig’s neck in a flare, drawing him away from Tom with a ruthless pull.

 

Tom is shoved backwards, knocking the back of his head against the wall. He hisses with pain, blinking his eyes open to see what’s going on.

 

He chokes on his own breath when he recognizes the new member in the scene. The scene is playing on it self like raging, over flooded river.

 

Pressed tightly behind Zig, Chris grabs Zig’s wrist, the one holding the knife, bending it into an impossible angle.

 

Zig screams in pain, and the knife slips from his hand to the floor along with his whimpers.

 

With a swift motion, Chris kicks the knife away, sending it to disappear under the alley’s endless amount of rubble, 

 

“My knife!”, Zig screams with fury, and drives his elbow back into Chris’s abdomen.

 

A low, broken groan comes from Chris’s mouth, and Zig uses Chris’s momentary weakness to break free from his hold. Face contorted in pain, Chris finds the nearest wall to lean on as he rubs his aching belly - very close to his scar from his older wounds, Tom recognizes.

 

“What are you doing??” Tom hisses painfully, “get out of here!”

 

Zig rubs his wrist, his eyes large as he stares at Chris with dawning realization. 

 

“The fuck you doing here,” he grits at him. “Haven’t I killed you already?”

 

Chris licks his lips, standing up from the wall. He takes a long, unsteady breath.

 

“I’m back. From the dead,” he says, hand still massaging his lower stomach.

 

“Go back to your family Chris, for god’s sake-”

 

“Stop protecting him!” Zig warns Tom, then turns his attention back to Chris. 

 

“Chris, huh. Now I know it. How’s it goin’- Chris? Long time no see,” Zig asks him, his tone dangerously playful.

 

“I want you to let him go,” Chris indicates his chin at Tom.

 

Zig simply laughs at Chris’s face.

 

“Oh, oh,” Zig grins devilishly at Chris. “You're just something Chrisy.”

 

“I can see why Tom is rooting for you, you’re all so-” Zig smacks his fist into his open palm, “final. That’s cool. I like that. I can definitely see the appeal.”

 

He turns his grin at Tom then, and unceremoniously reaches to run his fingers through Tom’s hair, then drags them across his cheek. Tom’s heart is wildly pounding in his chest.

 

“You know what I don’t like about you though?” Zig smiles at Tom, then turns to cock his head at Chris, whose face is as cold as Tom has never seen before.

 

“I don’t like the way you used him,” Zig points at Tom, “used him for your fake police intel, telling him some shit crazy stories about us taking money from sick people and all that.” 

 

“Did you tell him all these trashy things?”

 

“What’s wrong, forgot how to talk?” 

 

“No,” Chris shakes his head, “I did not.”

 

Zig pulls an extravagant grunt that echoes through the alley’s solitude.

 

“Bullshit. That’s just utter bullshit. I know you- you and your blue buddies, how you treat us. All you want to do is use us for your own benefits or do the dirty work you ain’t men enough to do. Then you lock us all up and treat us like dirt - all because it’s fucking easy.

 

Zig’s grows excited, his eyes holding this odd glitter.

 

“You beat us, you spit in our face, you throw all your fucking frustrations at us.”

 

“You cops care nothing about the truth. You think cons have no soul? No fucking feelings? You think we’ve never gotten hurt before?”

 

“So what if I stole money and broke into some place, does it mean I’m not a man anymore?”

 

“You cops are worse than we are. You should be put in jail,” he points at Chris, “not me.”

 

Zig’s face is flushed with red. His words leave a low echo as he wipes his palm over his mouth.

 

“You’re lying,” he drawls, voice dripping with bitterness, “you’re a liar. You washed his brain with your dirty agenda, and you turned him into a fucking rat, that’s what you did.”

 

No, no. This is not going well. 

 

“Zig, Please- this is not his fault. I did things because I wanted to-”

 

“Quit it!” Zig hisses at Tom. “He’s using you boss, open your fucking eyes,” he says through gnawing teeth, “Why are you siding him huh? Are you friends with him? Is there something I should know about you two? Tell me right now-” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Chris cuts into the dangerously deteriorating exchange, “I’m sorry my fellow cops mistreated you. I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry nobody gave you a real chance. They were wrong. You deserved one.”

 

Zig stares at him, gobsmacked. He was not expecting that.

 

Neither was Tom.

 

“You’re sorry,” Zig repeats. “You’re fucking sorry. Fucking white knight.”

 

“Are you playing games with me blue?”

 

“No games,” Chris shakes his head. “I meant what I said.”

 

Zig narrows his eyes at him. He looks between Tom and Chris.

 

“Is that how he bought you boss?” he mutters in a tone so low Tom can barely hear him, “He told you he’s sorry for the dirt others had thrown at you? He made you feel good?” 

 

Not really intending for Tom to respond, Zig shakes his head with a brutal laugh.

 

“Well, fuck me. You really are something else Chrisy. You’ve got the right looks, a steady job, some manners and shit, you’re the whole package, aren’t you.”

 

Zig clears his throat, stretching his neck from side to side. Chris is watching his movements closely, not sparing Tom even a short glance.

 

“And you think I’m not as good as him, huh boss,” Zig turns to Tom.

 

“Don’t you,” he asks again when Tom refuses to answer, features sharpening.

 

“Zig,” Tom swallows thickly. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

“Say you’re coming with me,” Zig touches Tom’s cheek. 

 

“And don’t be sad boss, I feel lucky. Do you know why?” he leans a little closer.

 

“Do you know why?” he tugs Tom’s chin for an answer.

 

“No, no I don’t,” Tom tells him, feeling exhausted. “Please let us go. Or him. Let him out of here and you and I will go wherever it is that you want to.”

 

Zig lets out a sigh, his eyes grim. He’s disappointed, Tom realizes.

 

Disappointed, - and sad.

 

Tom opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the moment vanishes as soon as Zig takes his next breath.

 

“And you, fake batman?” Zig addresses Chris with a snare. 

 

Chris, Tom notices, is standing much closer to Zig than he did mere moments ago. “Do you know why I’m feeling lucky?”

 

“Let him go Zig. Let’s finish this quietly.”

 

Zig’s face contorts into a dark, angry frown.

 

“Wrong answer.”

 

“I feel lucky because-,” Zig grins at Chris. 

 

When he speaks next, Zig’s voice drops to a whisper. 

 

“Because I brought another knife with me.” 

 

In a flash, Zig yanks a new knife from the back of his trousers, and darts at Chris, who is slammed against the wall with a strangled whimper.

 

It’s as if the ground has fallen open beneath Tom’s feet.

 

Zig thrusts his knife close to Chris’s face, but Chris deflects him, his fists locking Zig’s wrists in a tight grip.

 

“You washed his brains against his friends,” Zig hisses close to Chris’s face.

 

“Zig!” Tom hauls at him, stretching his cuffs against his wrists, “Don’t do this!”, but Zig only tries to drive the knife closer.

 

Chris bares his teeth at Zig, his neck reddened with effort, and bends Zig’s wrist once again into a dire angle, sending Zig into whimpers, his wails shuddering the old alley’s walls.

 

Zig struggles to maintain his grip on the knife, but mere moments pass until his fingers snap open with a strangled gasp, dropping the knife on the floor. Quickly, Chris kicks this knife into the dark abyss of the alley as well.

 

“God damnit!,” Zig cries, tearing himself from Chris in favor of massaging his burning wrist.

 

He charges at Chris again, this time hurling his fist towards Chris’s face.

 

Chris deflects Zig’s punch, snatching Zig’s wrists again, and Zig barks in frustration.

 

“Where did I shoot you, huh?” he asks Chris through his teeth.

 

“Did I hit your legs? Your kidneys? Your lungs?”

 

“I should have hit your pretty face,” Zig spits, and uses his body weight to lean backwards and break Chris’s grip, only to drive back at him with his leg, sending his heel straight into Chris’s middle.

 

This time - it’s a direct hit to Chris’s belly. 

 

Chris’s moan chills Tom’s blood. Chris is once again tossed backwards, his back hitting the wall with a low thud.

 

“No, Chris - please,” Tom whimpers, his chest collapsing into a tight ball of pain, but everything just keeps happening - and Chris throws his fist at Zig, jostling into Zig’s jaw with a snap, driving Zig stumbling backwards.

 

Furious, Chris advances at him and they circle each other, both of them breathing hard, their foreheads shining with sweat and their clothes rumbled.

 

“You will never be a friend as good as I was to Tom, never,” Zig mouths at him, but Tom’s attention is drawn to one of the halls leading out of the alley. A strange rustle catches his ears.

 

“Chris, Chris! Someone is coming!” Tom hisses, but Chris ignores him altogether.

 

“Stop!” a voice calls, suddenly-

 

And Zig rushes at Chris again, shoving his shoulder into Chris’s chest, driving Chris’s back into the wall for the third time.

 

Chris grabs Zig’s shoulders, sends a sharp kick to his middle, and with a great heave wrenches Zig away and jerks him to face the wall. He twists one of Zig’s arms behind his back and wraps his own arm around Zig’s neck.

 

Zig groans with pain, muttering some unintelligible ugly words at Chris.

 

He becomes entirely immobile under Chris’s unmovable constraint, and Tom watches them both, transfixed.

 

Chris is a cop. That’s just what he is, whether he likes it or not.

 

“Hold it right there!” a voice commands them. A group of three armed cops appears from the corner of the alley, all with the guns aimed at Chris and Zig.

 

“Number one six zero eight six,” Chris calls hoarsely, “I called.”

 

“Is he armed?” the leader of the group asks Chris.

 

“Not sure, cold weapons though,” Chris says, and suddenly, Zig begins to toss and twist beneath Chris’s grip.

 

“Fuck if I’m coming with you,” Tom hears Zig say, “and fuck if you think I won’t come back.”

 

“Stay calm sir,” one of the men points his weapon, carefully nearing Chris and Zig.

 

Chris struggles with him, then twists Zig’s arm further behind his back as he pushes him back against the wall.

 

Chris leans his head closer then, saying something right into Zig’s ear.

 

Tom can’t hear any of it.

 

“What? What did you just say?” Zig erupts at Chris, furious.

 

“Fuck you blue, you ugly cop, you don’t get to tell me what to do,-”

“I told you to stay calm sir,” the armed man repeats, and his other group members are surrounding them in a heartbeat, taking hold of Zig’s arms and allowing Chris to untangle from him.

“Why aren’t you taking him as well?” Zig bursts at the cops, “This cop-friend of yours just punched my jaw and broke my wrists.”

 

“What would you do if someone made your best friend rat on you, huh? Would you not hit his face for it?”

 

Chris steps back from Zig, he leans back on it and drops his head back, his chest heaving.

 

“Chris!” Tom calls, stepping as far as he can from the pipe, arms stretched behind him. The metal cuffs are digging into his skin, but he’s not feeling anything. “Talk to me. Are you alright?”

 

Chris turns his head to look at Tom, his eyes slightly narrowed, staring at Tom as if he doesn't recognize him.

 

“Chris,” Tom tries again, more urgently. “Say something. Are you ok? Can you talk?”

 

Chris swallows down, his throat moving. He drops his head back with a long exhale.

 

“I don’t think so,” he mutters ever so softly, and with an odd shake to his head, he slides down to the floor, rolling to his back.

 

“Chris!” Tom whimpers, stricken with horror.

 

“Call an ambulance, call an ambulance!” he snaps at the stunned policemen.

 

“A man down,” one of them quickly draws out a small communication device, ”we have a man down.”

 

“Uncuff me, please, let me help him,” Tom pleads, and after a slight hesitation, the third cop gets into action. He hurries to Zig, who’s being cuffed by the other two officers, and fishes for the set of keys in his pocket.

 

“Come on, come on,” Tom murmurs as the officer struggles with his cuffs, and rushes to Chris’s side once he’s freed.

 

“Hey! I can’t have you touching him-” the officer instructs Tom, but falls silent when Tom pulls Chris’s jacket open, shuddering at what he sees. 

 

Chris’s shirt is soaked with blood. His scar has opened.

 

“I need some stoppering cloth, quickly,” Tom keeps his voice as steady as possible. All that matters right now is stopping the blood from flowing.

 

Chris’s eyes are closed, yet his chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and Tom relies on that while him and the officer next to him are working to stabilize Chris.

 

Other than the reopened scar, Chris’s torso looks relatively stable. His back, however, hit the wall several times, but they can’t the risk turning Chris over to his side in order to inspect it.

 

Sires are heard at the distance then.“Help is on the way,” the cop confirms, and Tom bends over to Chris, carefully touching his arm.

 

“Chris, can you open your eyes,” Tom asks, “Can you hear me?”

 

Tom notes a slight shift under his palm, and squeezes Chris’s shoulder.

 

“Talk to me Chris, come on. Please.”

 

Eyes pressed shut, still breathing hard, Chris shakes his head a little, murmuring something Tom does not catch at first.

 

“My back.”

 

Tom’s heart leaps in his chest.

 

“What was that?” Tom bends down to him, “What did you say?”

 

“My back- is killing me,” Chris mutters in between his ragged breaths.

 

_ Oh baby,  _ Tom swallows thickly. He yearns to gather Chris into his arms, but- but he won’t.

 

What if - what if Chris doesn’t want others to see?

 

“Help on the way,” he settles for rubbing Chris’s arm. 

 

“They- They’ll take you to the hospital.” 

 

Chris shifts his head again, then slits his eyes open. He looks exhausted.

 

Alarmed, Tom tries to see the shape of Chris’s pupils. “What’s wrong Chris?” 

 

“Do you realize what just happened.”

 

“What,” Tom blinks at him, pausing. “What?”

 

“Do you realize,- Do you realize that without your testimonies, Zig and people like him will roam free?”

 

Tom takes a deep, unsteady breath. “Calm down Chris, please. Don’t stress yourself.”

 

Luckily, the other cop is busy with directing the medics over to them, oblivious to their conversation.

 

“They’re potential murderers,” Chris tells him. “Do you realize how many people you’ve saved?” 

 

Tom bites his lip, his hands trembling as he fastens the stoppering cloth over Chris’s side. He can’t- he can’t do this right now.

 

The ambulance parks nearby and the medics are pouring out of the vehicle, immediately spotting Chris lying on the floor. They rush over to him.

 

“You did the right thing. You are not a rat,” Chris insists.

 

Tom swallows past an impossibly crowded throat. His mouth is dry.

 

“The medics are here sir,” the cop informs them as the medics crouch next to them.

 

“You helped people. You helped the community-”

 

“Please relax sir,” the medics quickly examine Chris’s body, readying the gurney next to them.

 

They prepare to heft Chris’s body off the cold pavement, with Tom quickly moving to help them, when Chris suddenly moves his arm, catching Tom’s wrist.

 

“Do you understand?” he tightens his hold, cracking his eyes open. “Tell me that you do.” 

 

The medics look at Tom, slightly confused yet mostly expectant, wordlessly implying that their conversation should be over.

 

“Chris-”

 

“Do you understand?” Chris holds Tom’s eyes, his fingers hot against Tom’s skin.

 

_ They are taking you away from me,  _ Tom wipes his arm over his damp eyes.

 

“I- I do, I understand,” Tom nods, praying that Chris will let this go before some hot tears break through. 

 

Calming down almost at once, Chris releases Tom’s wrist.

 

“Ok, good. ” Chris murmurs, letting his eyes fall shut. 

 

“Go back to your parents,” he manages, but then falls silent, body growing loose.

 

“We have to take him,” one of the medics scolds him, and Tom gets into action at once.

 

With his help, the medics lift Chris, then lay him down on the gurney. Tom watches them as they hoist Chris into the ambulance, rubbing his aching wrists.

 

“Can I come with you? Maybe I can help-” he asks the medic who tended Chris with him moments ago.

 

“Are you family sir?”

 

“What,” Tom shakes his head nervously, “I- No- no.”

 

“Then I’m afraid I cannot let you join us sir. You’ll have to refer straight to the hospital.”

 

The medic quickly climbs into the ambulance, and closes the door behind him without further words.

 

Within seconds the ambulance is already driving off the curb, taking off through the thin halls of the alley as it heads to the main road.

 

At once, the scene becomes terribly quiet, everything silenced but Tom’s heart’s wild pounding in his ears.

 

“What do I do, what do I do,” Tom runs a shaky hand through his hair. He can’t think straight.

 

He turns around, and catches sight of Zig, who’s seated in the police vehicle’s backseat, hands cuffed behind his back.

 

Zig is looking right back at him, and Tom holds his gaze.

 

“I hope you rot in jail,” Tom mouths at him, and looks away. He can’t bear the sight of Zig’s face anymore.

 

The sky is becoming crimson red, the day is nearly over.

 

Tom massages the back of his neck against the endless tension, wiping his palm over his face.

 

“So what if I’m not his family,” Tom mutters into his hand, feeling stupid, feeling useless. 

  
  
  
  
  


How differently this evening would have ended, if not for Zig.

 

“So fucking what.”

  
  
  


\-------------

  
  


One of the officers insists on questioning Tom for a few more details about the events that occurred, but afterwards, Tom is free to go.

 

He’s exhausted, starving and terribly thirsty - but there’s no question.

 

He rushes to the hospital.

  
  


\-------------

  
  


And that hospital is enormous. Tom spends a whole sodding hour trying to locate Chris.

 

But eventually, Tom finds him. Chris is kept in an intensive care department, which is locked behind a thick, electric door Tom despises immediately.

 

He’s not allowed inside at all, not even after he begs of each of the doctors he stumbles into down the hall for entry.

 

Chris is stable, they tell him, and once Chris’s relatives show up, Tom will be able to learn more from them as they shall be fully updated.

 

Worn tired, Tom sits down on one of the waiting chairs with a groan. He waits.

 

And he waits some more, though he does not know for how long. 

 

But, when the main door opens and *she* enters, Tom’s instincts call for his attention.

 

Pulled from his light slumber, Tom slits his eyes open.

 

The lady is a complete stranger to him, yet the moment he sees her, he knows who she is.

 

Two young children are following her, a boy and a girl, both neat and good looking.

 

As beautiful and sweet as their father.

 

Fascinated by the sight of the children, Tom studies them as their mother approaches the receipt.

 

“Chris Hemsworth,” he can hear Chris’s ex-wife asking the desk clerk about.

 

Tom sits very still in his chair, as if not wanting to be discovered, and listens to their exchange.

 

The clerk asks for an id, and when verified, even smiles at Chris’s ex lady. She makes a short phone call, informing the doctor of the newly arrived family members.

 

Within moments, the doctor emerges from down the hall, approaching Chris’s ex wife, and tells her everything Tom is painfully thirsty to know.

 

Though he tries his best, he hardly makes a word out of their conversation.

 

After a while, the doctor asks the small family to follow him, leading them towards the electric door.

 

All of them walk past Tom, passing nearby his seat. 

 

It happens then that by some odd undercurrent Tom cannot explain, Chris’s ex eyes lock with his for a long, unpredictable moment.

 

She seems to evaluate Tom, and Tom decides not to waver, assessing her in return.

 

And then it’s over. Chris’s ex looks away and moves on, her kids trailing after her as she takes after the doctor.

 

The doctor enters a code into a small dial, the electric door opens, and all of them walk inside. Tom stretches his neck, watching them through the door’s thick glass. The doctor directs the lady into the right room, Chris’s room, Tom realizes, and allows her inside before they part with a polite smile.

 

They disappear into that room, and Tom is able to see nothing more.

 

He sits back with a sigh.

 

They’re going to meet Chris. Not him.

 

Because that woman is Chris’s family.

  
  


\--------

  
  


Tom continuously glances at the clock during the family’s visit.

 

They’re in there for a relatively long time. Does it mean that Chris is conscious? Is he talking?

 

Can he walk?

 

Tom leans his elbow on his crossed knees, laying his forehead in his palm.

 

By the end of a little more than eighty seven minutes, that blasted electric door opens. Tom straightens in his seat.

 

Chris’s ex-wife- what is her name?, exits the door, and the little boy and girl are walking right behind her as they head to the receipt stand.

 

Fascination yet to subside, Tom’s eyes are set on Chris’s children as they pass by him without paying him a second look.

 

Chris’s wife exchanges a few words with the clerk, seemingly providing her with additional medical details about Chris.

 

Unable to stop himself, Tom stares at her. 

 

And, whether or not she’s able to sense his eyes boring into her, Tom does not know, but suddenly, she appears to consider something, and -

 

And she turns her head to look straight back at Tom. 

 

Tom holds his breath.

 

Her eyes narrow inquisitively.

 

With a tingle in his stomach, Tom returns her look, but his heart skips a beat when she unexpectedly decides to approach him.

 

Thinking fast, Tom rises from his seat to meet her.

 

“Excuse me. Are you waiting to see Chris Hemsworth?”

 

Tom is a little more than a head taller than her. He clears his throat.

 

“Yes,” he nods.

 

She gives Tom a long, thorough look, assessing him once again.

 

“I’m sorry but - are you two working together or...?”

 

“Um, no. We are uh, We are friends,” Tom decides quickly. Unlike with Zig earlier today, he does not choose truth this time.

 

He has absolutely no understanding of her motives or how she just realized he’s here for Chris.

 

“May I ask what is your name?”

 

“Tom. I’m Tom.”

 

“Tom. I’m Nicole. I and Chris used to be married.”

 

_ Used to be,  _ Tom emphasizes.  _ Used to be. _

 

“Chris never mentioned you,” she says, eyes narrowing again.

 

“Did someone call you? How did you know to come here?”

 

Aha. That’s an excellent question.

 

Nicole eyes Tom’s figure when he fails to reply, frowning when she recognizes Tom’s bandaged wrists.

 

“What happened to your wrists?” she asks, her eyes darkening suspiciously.

 

“I-” Tom tries to reach for an answer.

 

“How did you know to come here?” she asks him again with growing alarm.

 

“Were you there with him? During the fight?” she insists, voice demanding and answer. “You’re the man he went for?”

 

Tom certainly did not prepare for this. Though he absolutely should have, he thinks stupidly.

 

“I was there with him, yes,” Tom nods slowly. There’s only so much he can lie about.

 

Nicole’s disquiet continues to build.

 

“How did this happen? Why would he follow you into a fight?”

 

Oh. This is difficult. Very difficult. Tom licks his lips anxiously.

 

“Nicole, I-”

 

“Chris has kids to take care of. He has a family. He’s been through enough already as it is. His mind should stay clear of bad ideas and shady people. Do you realize that?”

 

Tom takes a deep, calming breath. It feels as if she just slapped his face and banished him out of the room.

 

“Nicole, I would never harm Chris. I never wanted for this to happen.”

 

“But it did happen, and now he’s lying in there, hurt,” she tells him pointedly.

 

She speaks as if she and Chris never separated.

 

“And now what, you’re waiting to see him?”

 

“Yes,” Tom looks into her eyes. “I wish to see how he’s doing.”

 

You made a vast mistake, lady. You lied. You cheated and gave up on him.

 

And now I’m here to take the place you foolishly let go of.

 

“He never mentioned you before,” she says disapprovingly,  “I’ll sure ask him about you.”

 

_ Perhaps you should.  _ Tom purses his lips.  _ Perhaps you should. _

 

Gathering his wits, Tom decides to pursue more pressing issues.

 

“How is he doing?” Tom tries. Right now Nicole is his sole anchor for information. “Is he conscious? Can he speak?”

 

“He’s a little sleepy, but he’s fine,” she tells Tom. “And he’s able to talk, yes.”

 

Internally, Tom exhales with relief. 

 

“I’m not sure you should stay though. I don’t think you’ll be able to see him,” she generously informs Tom. “Visiting hours are over. I don’t think they’ll let you in there any time soon.”

 

She obviously does not want him here.

 

Tom will ponder this when the current urgency shall ease. Right now, however, some of Tom’s oldest skills are required.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods at Nicole. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should leave.”

 

Still suspicious, Nicole looks somewhat satisfied.

 

“Yeah, you better not waste your time here.”

 

Indeed.

 

Her kids wave at her then, willing her to finish her business with Tom, and Nicole loses her patience.

 

“Ok. I should go. Good bye now.”

 

With one final look, Nicole turns to leave. She calls her children to join her, whom, thankfully, found absolutely zero interest in this adult exchange.

 

The kids manage to startle Tom, however, when both of them give him a curious glance before the door closes behind them. He nods back at them, but he thoroughly doubts they understood his gesture.

 

The hall becomes terribly quiet again, illuminated by that horrible, sickening pale light. It’s like the hospital engineers were having an internal joke while installing those damned bulbs.

 

Tom shoves his hands into his pockets, and leans his shoulder on the wall.

 

He shall never be able to have a biological child with Chris. 

 

Not in this lifetime.

  
  
  


Distantly, he wonders if and when he’ll get to meet this little boy and girl again.

  
  


\--------

  
  


Obviously, Tom does not intend to leave. Quite the contrary.

  
  


Once a fox - always a fox.

  
  


Only a good fox this time.

  
  


A good fox.

  
  


\------------

  
  


A little after ten pm, after the reception clerk leaves for a cigarette and no medical staff is to be seen, is Tom’s opportune moment.

 

With the humble help four hundred dollars handed in cash to one of the cleaning workers, Tom has managed to obtain the code to that daunting electric door.

 

He slips into the main lobby, and quietly jogs to Chris’s room. With his heart already pounding within, Tom enters through the door.

 

There are two patients inside the room, each of their beds concealed behind thin, faded curtains bearing the hospital’s logo.

 

Luckily, Tom was sharp enough to learn from the doctor’s chat with Nicole that Chris is located closer to the window.

 

Taking a deep breath, Tom moves the curtain a little, his finger crossing his lips in a gesture for Chris to remain quiet. 

 

But, lying on the bed with his chest moving slowly - Chris is asleep.

 

Tom stands very still, marveling at the peaceful silence around the room coupled with his ability to be alone with Chris.

 

Carefully, Tom touches his wrist, whispering Chris’s name.

 

Within seconds, Chris begins to stir. 

 

Tom holds his breath.

 

“Tom?” Chris rasps, rubbing his hand over his eyes. 

 

“Yes it’s me, stay quiet,” Tom squeezes his wrist.

 

Chris blinks a few times, eyes adjusting to the light.

 

“How did you get here?”

 

Chris can speak. He is alright, he’s coherent. He’s ok.

 

“How did you get them to let you in?”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Chris needs a moment, then he understands. Then -  he chuckles.

 

“Well, you’re quite the sore thumb among the rest of the gray folks around here.”

 

Tom smiles lightly at him. Chris’s laugh warms his insides.

 

“I had to see you, to see that you’re ok.”

 

“I’m fine, I’m ok,” Chris murmurs, fatigue oozing off him. Tom is rather positive there’s a significant amount of painkillers and sedatives running through Chris’s veins right now.

 

“How are you doing,” Chris looks at him sleepily.

 

“How am I doing?” Tom raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who stood in the front line, not me.”

 

“What’s going on, tell me Chris.”

 

“Mmm,” Chris scratches his neck.

 

“They stitched my scar again. My back is bruised. They are going to keep me here for a while. Other than that, I’m fine.”

 

“And your legs, can you still walk?” Tom asks and immediately regrets it. 

 

And for a good reason. The question kills the mood. Chris lowers his eyes to the bed. He crosses his arms across his chest defensively.

 

“I don’t know. They haven’t let me off the bed yet.”

 

Sighing with resignation, Tom inspects the pale hospital blanket covering Chris’s body.

 

The things Nicole told him are haunting his thoughts. 

 

“Following me was too dangerous,” he says with another sigh. “This could have easily worked out much, much worse.”

 

Chris frowns unhappily at him.

 

“What would you have had me do then? Stay in the car while seeing him dragging you behind the buildings?”

 

Tom purses his lips, shaking his head. 

 

“There’s just too much at stake Chris, you have kids, a family to take care of.”

 

“Do you know what this man would have done to you if I hadn’t shown up?” Chris asks him in a low voice. 

 

Tom winces within, instinctively remembering Zig’s fingers in his hair, then trailing down his cheek.

 

“Those bad things you’re thinking about - exactly that. And much worse. And at the end of it - he would have taken you with him.”

 

Tom lowers his gaze. 

 

_ Chris’s mind should stay clear of bad ideas and shady people. _

 

_ Shady people. _

 

That hurt. 

 

“Well, your ex-wife tends to agree with me.”

 

Chris’s face contorts disapprovingly.

 

“My what?”

 

“You spoke to Nicole?”

 

“I- yes. She- she approached me just down the hall and- gave me a piece of her mind.”

 

Chris’s features sharpen, all traces of fatigue gone from his face, as if the drugs are losing their hold on him.

 

“What exactly did she tell you.”

 

Bringing her up was not wise. But Tom is not strong enough to contain the encounter with her.

 

“She said - that you need to take of your kids. That you should stay away from ill-advised people.”

 

“Like me.”

 

Chris gives him a long, measuring look.

 

“Well, that’s nice.”

 

“Do you think she was considering her kids when she went with another man while still sharing a bed with their father? While calling me her husband?”

 

Chris coughs under the effort, wiping his palm over his mouth.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

Tom lowers his eyes. He is a sensitive idiot.

 

“I should not have brought her up, I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. She said those things to you for a reason.”

 

Tom furrows his eyebrows, but does not reply. He shall investigate this peculiar piece of information later.

 

Tentatively, he reaches for Chris’s face. He traces his fingers over Chris’s brow, trailing them down to his cheek.

 

Chris is quiet, breathing slowly under Tom’s gentle touch.

 

He frowns, however, when he notices Tom’s hands.

 

“What’s this,” He asks disapprovingly, catching Tom’s bandaged wrist.

 

“Is this because he cuffed you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well,” Chris traces his thumb along the bandage, “he won’t come after you again.”

 

And when Chris refers to  _ him _ , Tom's memory flashes with an image, or rather a question.

 

“You said something to Zig before they took him,” he peers at Chris. “Something that pissed him off terribly. What was it?”

 

Chris lets go of Tom’s wrist. He stares off to an undefined spot, the wheels of his mind turning again. 

 

“Are you sure you want to know?”

 

Huh. That’s interesting.

 

“You’re not scaring me,” Tom smiles at him.

 

“Good, that’s good,” Chris turns his eyes to Tom. He looks... strangely calm. And- satisfied.

 

“I told him,” He speaks slowly, voice low, his odd demeanor making Tom reconsider his latest statement.

 

“That nobody touches you, but me.” 

 

“Nobody.”

 

Oh. 

 

Tom’s heart bounces.

 

“I told you I’m not a nice guy.”

 

Tom shakes his head, lips slightly parted as if to say something. But he cannot finds words to reply. 

 

He reaches for Chris’s cheek again, leans down, and kisses Chris’s lips.

 

The angle is far from comfortable and someone might barge in any second, but it doesn’t matter.

 

“Thank you for helping me,” he says against Chris’s mouth, “thank you for protecting me.”

 

He kisses Chris’s brow, and draws him close to his chest.

 

For moments Tom holds him, combing his fingers through Chris’s hair.

 

“Coming after you made me feel like a man again,” Chris suddenly mutters against Tom’s shirt, making Tom pause.

 

“I remembered what it feels like not being the office secretary that I’ve become.”

 

Tom takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

 

He kisses the top of Chris’s crown, and holds him closer.

 

Moments pass in silence, until Chris’s breaths fall into a slow, steady rhythm. Slowly, he falls asleep against Tom’s chest.

 

Gently, carefully, Tom aligns Chris back on his bed, and pulls the pale blanket over his torso.

 

He finds a chair nearby and places it right next to Chris’s bed. He sits down, and takes Chris’s hand in his.

 

He lays his head on the bed, close to Chris’s middle, and lets his eyes fall shut. 

 

Memories begin to swirl in Tom’s mind. Of their struggle with Zig, of the questioning with Ravitz, of that bastard Mike, of his lonely year in prison.

 

He remembers Chris lying on the floor, bleeding, and himself next to him, tending his wounds, and he remembers himself tucked closed to Chris’s chest, both of them falling into a sweet, short slumber together.

 

_ You did the right thing. You are not a rat. _

 

Tom bites his lip, trying to hold them back, but his silent tears finally break free, trailing down Tom’s face.

 

“I love you,” Tom whispers close to Chris’s fingers, “I really love you. I want you to get better.” 

 

The tears flow, wetting the bed sheets, until he’s too tired to shed any more of them. He wipes his face with his shirt sleeve, and feels a little lighter. 

 

He can sleep now, at long last.

 

He is distantly aware that he might be discovered any minute and get kicked out of the hospital.

 

But nobody finds him during the night.

  
  


And if they did -

  
  


They let him stay.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Roni Alter - I Follow Rivers (Lykke Li cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPGGdijkArc)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for this chapter -  
> Physical violence. Plenty of bad words. Some angst. Some themes of non consent (but absolutely no rape! Not even close!)  
> Strong emotions and emotional action ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, it's me again :)
> 
> I told myself I should write some other pairing, but these two and this specific plot won't leave my mind, so here it is.
> 
> I hope you are enjoying what you are reading. Your pleasure is my pleasure.
> 
> This story is dedicated to sweet Gisela, whom this work is gifted to. A humble gift for a humble, sweet person :)


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